Boss's Best Friend
by SnowyDayStarlight
Summary: *Discontinued* An untrustworthy boss, a bloodthirsty media, and Facebook. All hell breaks lose when the world's most heavily guarded secret is revealed: The existence of the Nations. Pre-established USUK.
1. Intro

**An untrustworthy boss, a bloodthirsty media, and Facebook - All hell breaks lose when the world's most heavily guarded secret is revealed: the existence of the Nations. Pre-established USUK.**

0-0-0

They have no idea how they got here.

Immortals, fearful, hundreds of thousands of years forced onto their knees in front of one measly generation.

_Flash._ Click. _Snap. _

The room is dark, with stained wood-panel walls. On one side, the left, there's row upon row of folding chairs, lined up like band members in a parade, all made of the grey-ish plastic that sags beneath your weight.

On the right, there are bleachers. Each long bench is elevated a bit more than the last, surely rising upwards. Every one of their occupants has their own little black table, microphone, glass of water and nametag. The United States of America, one screams. The Russian Federation, gloats another, in it's neat, black-and-white print.

The nametags. Those tiny, insignificant scraps of paper, shamelessly chopping down thousands of years of effort to _keep it a secret_. Cliché as the comparison is, it's a true one: the Nation's whole lives are like dominos, tripping and toppling over one another in a mad rush, the click of their individual bodies hitting the floor linking together to form one mighty roar.

Dominos, which had taken forever to be set up, that were so carefully tended to - they all fall so damn easily.

_Keep it a secret._

Those words they had all lived by.

_Keep it a secret._

Fuck that.

In the chaos to come, the Nations would look back on this moment. When they threw up their hands and surrendered. When their governments decided that, in this age of internet and instant access to information, some secrets just can't be kept.

_Click, snap, _snap.

The audience hums like a hive of bees, buzzing around each Nation's head and whispering into their ears, threatening to sting. Reporters, notepads at the ready, pens scratching away, alongside photographers with snapping cameras and TV reporters broadcasting this wood paneled room to people all across the world, live.

America, sweating through his crisp black suit, watches the commotion through tired eyes.

He might have been able to enjoy himself had the timing been right. After over two hundred years of living in secret, he'd be free. Free to tell the truth. Trash the fake IDs, screw the secret conferences. He might even be able to settle down for a while without worrying about the neighbors realizing, _'Holy shit, that guy hasn't aged in ten years!' _

But not _now. _He couldn't enjoy it now. Why, why, why must it have happened _now? _Things were just beginning to come together. Peering over his shoulder at the row of bleachers behind him, America looks long and hard at one Nation in particular.

England is frozen, staring off into space, his tilted head perched delicately atop laced fingertips. Forehead creased, America is about to turn away when the man stirs slightly and, green eyes searching, turns to meet his gaze. He gives America a quick nod and taps the bottom of his chin before pointing a long finger towards the ceiling.

It takes a moment for America to realize what this means. With a nervous grin, he attempts to (discreetly, of course) sign a message back.

Winking and tapping his closed eyelid, _I_, placing his fist on his chest, somewhere near the general vicinity of his heart, _Love. . ._

Wait, no, that probably wasn't clear enough.

Starting over, America keeps both eyes wide open and pinches the bridge of his nose, _I_,takes both hands and presses his thumbs together, forming a -

England abruptly slaps the table in front of him, earning quite a few stares, and shoots America a warning look before gesturing vaguely towards the audience.

Oh. Right.

America decides a simple thumbs-up will do.

Sighing, he turns to face the beehive once more, this time hunched over, legs spread with his elbows resting on his knees.

Click. _Flash. Snap. _More cameras.

Suddenly, an ear-wrenching, metallic ring scrapes the air. Wincing, America's hands fly to his ears as his narrowed eyes search for the source of that _awful _sound. A loud tapping noise is heard, before the amplified voice of some unknown political figure rings out over the crowd.

"Alright, let's get this show on the road."

The volume level in the room plummets. Nations bite their lips and pace their breaths.

"This gathering will be broadcast and subtitled worldwide in over 400 languages."

America reaches for his glass of water. Wrapping his fingers around its frosted surface, he finds his hands are shaking too violently to pick it up.

"I'll spare you the suspense and get to the point. As we all know, we're gathered here today to confirm the authenticity of a rumor that's been spreading internationally. The existence of immortal persons, each representing an independent State, or country. These said personifications, called Nations, are gathered here behind me." The announcer - no, beekeeper, or ringmaster - swings his arm backwards, inviting the audience in.

"This hasbeen a closely guarded secret for thousands of years. Please take note that the government is not to be accused of withholding information - The secrecy had been a time-honored tradition. We felt it was beyond our control. But those times are long gone now."

_Apparently, two months is 'long gone.' Maybe to humans. _

"I'll now hand the microphone over to the Nations", he concludes, turning to face the world expectantly.

It stares blankly.

"If you would introduce yourselves?"

The Nations look at each other, at those over their shoulder and seated below their feet, those settled to either side and in between. Really look at each other.

One hundred and ninety-seven people, silently exchanging their last words.

Tied together, whether they liked it or not, by history itself. By humans. By blood, by trust, by wars, by flags, by alliances, by hatred, by slaughter - all of them sharing the same mutual understanding. Pity, even, for each other and for themselves. Nice knowing you, thanks for the memories, we always did fuck things up, don't we?

The first to hit the ground leans into the microphone slowly, shoulders tensed and low, with drooping dog-ear bags hanging from his eyes.

"_Bundesrepublik Deutschland._ The Federal Republic of Germany."

Face illuminated by blue, gold, and white flashes, he can be seen glancing through his eyelashes at the audience before sighing heavily and burying his forehead in his hand.

And comes the second.

"I-Italy . . . _in particolare, _the Northern part . . ." the boy murmurs in a faint, trembling voice. His eyes wander tentatively before he looks down, clenching and relaxing his fists.

The third, not to be outdone.

Hair like ink shrouds his face and leaves a spider web of cracks in his pale forehead. Thick black eyelashes pulled together in a squint as he bites, "The People's Republic of China."

America can hear his heart pounding. Or if not hear, feel - honest to God, he can feel it. It's kicking wildly and beating against the walls of his ribcage, pushing aside his lungs and stretching his chest.

"India." "C-Canada." "_Republica Federativa do Brasil._""Australia." Four, five, six, seven.

"My turn", interrupts eight, breaking the chain of names. "England." He sits back triumphantly and places his hands behind his head, and tosses a meaningful look America's way. _Go on, then, tell them._

Silence. Other Nations have followed England's lead and are now watching America expectantly.

So. Here it is.

America allows himself one short moment to collect his thoughts - a quick, shaky, not-at-all calming breath.

"Yeah, uhmm, so, I'm . . . The United States." After a short pause, he clarifies, "Of America."

Holy _shit, _that's a lot of cameras.

America lets the sea and the bees wash over him, slumping back into his seat.

This feels nothing like he thought it would. The fear is gone, leaving an empty hole in its wake. No rebellious spark, no triumph - not even relief.

And then, his time is over. On with the show.

"I'm Hungary." "Republic of Austria." "Belarus." "Switzerland."

In the end, it all came down to the boss, the photos, and Facebook.


	2. The Boss

0-0-0

"We all have this oath that we swear. I mean, obviously, the wording changes from country to country. Any dumbass could figure that out. But basically it says, in whatever language, 'the land is our body and the people are our blood.' That last one fucking _kills. _I think of it as one big math problem. Kill some people, subtract some blood. I mean, no shit, it comes back when kids are born, but if you run out of people . . . hey, the country's probably gone and, well fuck, loser, you're fucking _dead_. Damn, you should see how pale we get during wars. We're like vampires."

- Italy Romano, interview in TIME Magazine

0-0-0

January 15th, before the madness began – a bugged cellphone call

"He won."

"I know."

"Yeah, you do. Stupid Republican."

"_Hey_. You're not supposed to be biased, luv. You represent everyone, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I'm allowed to have an opinion, aren't I? Or have I lost that right too?"

"No, you haven't, dear, you haven't lost anything. You're getting hysterical."

"But what will this do to us?"

"Nothing."

"He's a turbo-Christian, for Christ's sake!"

"Bloody hell, _calm down, _we'll sort it out. We've done it before."

"The guy's, like, allergic to common sense."

"You haven't met him yet, have you?"

"No, but -"

"Give it time. Trust me, I've been through this before. All Nations have at least one bad boss. Give it time."

0-0-0

"_I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."_

Thirty-five damned words.

0-0-0

January 20th - the White House

"Congratulations, Mr. President."

Before this sentence was yet capped with a 't', a roar of sound smashed through the speakers. Cheering, hooting, thunderous applause, giddy laughter and, floating somewhere in the background, a rendition of 'The Star Spangled Banner.'

The artificial light of the television screen gave America a headache.

"Give me the remote, please."

With the press of a button, the TV clicked to black, but left a white impression shining in the darkness of America's closed eyelids.

Hidden deep underground, surrounded by guards, the United States had just watched the Presidential Inauguration. And he didn't like it, not one bit.

In fact, the man was pissed.

Certainly, he had a lot to be pissed about. But there was one thing in particular that was bothering America. Not that he had been denied his morning coffee, or that his new IPhone's screen was sporting an even newer crack. Not even that he hated being trapped in small spaces for long periods of time.

There was something wrong with the his new boss's appearance.

His Presidents had never been real lookers, to be frank, and America wasn't vain. Really, he wasn't, no matter what drastic measures his Hollywood stars pulled to obtain beauty.

But John Harris was different. It hurt to look at him.

He was a figure made of wax. His skin was too glossy, stretched over his skull, and his lips let off a dull shine. His oily hair was combed to stick to his scalp and his teeth were too white. His smiles never reached his eyes. His ties tried too hard to match the suits he stood so stiffly inside you'd think they'd been coated in glue.

_John Harris_ had always been America's least favorite presidential candidate.

_It's not like I have a choice, _the Nation thought bitterly. He didn't understand how the man had managed to get elected in the first place - desperate times call for desperate measures, perhaps? Or, more likely, half of his people must've said, 'it's not like he's going to get into Office, so why bother?' and neglected to cast their votes. He'd heard that had happened to someone in the Middle East a while back.

America looked to his security guards, a pained smile wrinkling his lips.

"It's time, right?"

"Yes. We'll bring him in."

0-0-0

"Excuse me, Mr. President."

When John Harris didn't respond and continued to mingle with the crowd, the speaker, a toned man in a tux, turned the volume up a notch.

"_Excuse me._"

He continued to shake hand after hand, completely ignoring the suited man.

"_Excuse me! Mr. President!_"

Harris turned around robotically, his hand open and arm extended for another 'thank you, I'm honored' and smile. He was quite obviously taken aback when the suited man stayed frozen, his lips not moving to congratulate.

"You're late. Please, follow me."

That certainly wasn't a suggestion.

0-0-0

Harris couldn't remember the exact path he had taken to get there. But he found himself in a dark, underground chamber with agents guarding the exits and the man he knew to be Alfred F. Jones kneeling before him.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. Ignoring him, one of the guards looked to Alfred. "Do you need me to read it for you?"

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, I got it memorized." Refusing to make eye contact with the President, he said forcefully, "Give me your hand."

"I don't -"

Before he could further protest, Harris felt a rough, callused palm pressed against his own. Reflexively, he moved to shake it free, but Alfred was strong. _Extremely_ strong - his grip was painful, squeezing Harris' fingers till he felt they might burst. At this, the President's remaining nerves shattered.

"What are you _doing?"_

Alfred's head bowed and, in a bruising tone, he spoke the following words.

"I, the United States of America, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the will of the President of the United States and will to the best of my ability protect the core values I was founded upon. I hereby place my health, body and blood in the hands of the President and do swear secrecy for the common good."

The oath complete, America looked up, glaring daggers at his boss. He silently released the other's hand, leaving it to fall limply to Harris' side, and said flatly, "I'm done."

0-0-0

The Oval Office is where it was explained to Harris.

"You're telling me . . . he's a _country_?"

"Nation, technically. But yes."

"How does that even work?"

"We don't know."

"You don't - how can you possibly keep it a secret?"

"Only high-ranking officials are aware of their existence, yourself included."

"How do you know I won't tell?"

"You won't."

And that was the end of that.

0-0-0

February 3rd - Boston

"Well what'dya know, we've got a whole hour before the meeting!" marveled America, staring incredulously at his car's clock. "This is seriously a first."

"That's what you get when you budget your time", England said with a smug smile, patting down his hair in the rear-view mirror.

"Yeah, sleeping in and skipping breakfast to make up for it. Great _budgeting _- I'm starving, man."

England elbowed America perhaps a tad harder than necessary. "You'll be fine, fatty - I've planned it all out. With this _extra time_ I've so wonderfully procured, I was thinking that we might eat out somewhere."

"So, like, a date at nine A.M.",

"It's not unheard of."

Amusedly, America agreed. "Cool by me. Where do you wanna go?"

After a moment of contemplation, England said decidedly, "It's your pick." Realizing what this could mean, his expression darkened. "But No McDonalds, if you will."

"I'd never dream of it."

"Hmm? Oh, so I'm rubbing off on you?"

"For one date, yeah, whatever. Does Panera Bread meet your standards, oh glorious lord Kirkland?"

"That sounds just fine, thank you."

0-0-0

Fifty-six minutes later, America and England were seated in a cushioned booth, the table in front of them covered in crumb-coated dishes and balled up napkins. The latter nibbled at the remains of a buttery scone.

"I suppose these _do_ taste better than mine."

America stirred his drink distractedly, watching England talk. Somewhere along the line, he'd lost track of what the other was saying, but the movement of his lips was interesting enough on its own.

"Why haven't you told me anything about your boss?" England said suddenly, snapping America back to attention at the mention of his new President. "You haven't mentioned him since the phone call."

America scowled, a look England wasn't used to seeing on his face. "I didn't bring it up because I didn't want to get all depressed."

England nodded sympathetically. "Is it really that bad?"

"He'd kill me if he knew I was here."

"What's wrong with a breakfast out?"

"More who it's with. Told ya he wouldn't like it."

"You're still expecting the worst from him. He might just want you to focus more on your work."

"No, he doesn't. He told me that he wants to meet you. Nothing 'bout the other Nations - just _you._ Listen, he ain't diggin' the 'special relationship'", America assured him.

"Well if he wants to meet me, we should arrange it soon."

"Go ahead. It's your funeral."

"That's it", England said, getting to his feet, "you were right, now I'm depressed. I'll be at the nearest Dairy Queen stuffing myself with ice-cream." Seeing the look of alarm on America's face, the elder sighed heavily, "I was joking, dearie. I just need to use the bathroom."

With that, he exited the booth, leaving America alone and bored, tapping the table impatiently. Well, maybe not _alone_ - he always had his IPhone. Reaching into his back pocket, America pulled out the electronic, prepared to lose himself in a game of

Angry Birds. Frowning when his thumb brushed over the long crack in its' screen, he switched the phone on and began to browse through his apps, ready to press one before noticing the time.

_Holy shit, 9:57! The conference is in three minutes!_

"Wait, England!", America shouted, jumping to his feet. "England, we're late!" Stared at by many, he slipped out of the booth and dashed up the aisle towards the bathrooms, throwing the door open to find England lathering his hands in soap. Without giving him a chance to dry off, America hooked arms with the man and yanked him away from the sink.

"America!" he yelped, his voice amplified by the bathroom's echoing walls. "What the hell are you doing?"

"England, we're late!", America shouted once more, bursting back into the cafe's main hall with England stumbling after him. The elder Nation managed to hastily wipe his soapy hands on his corduroys before hissing, "People are staring, _Alfred_."

Missing his point, America continued to tug England towards the exit. "Seriously, by now the meeting's starting!"

As the pair slammed through the glass cafe doors, they failed to notice the woman watching them, and the flash of her digital camera.

0-0-0

**A/N: Ooh, question time: How do you think Nations die? I have my own opinion, but I want to hear everyone else's. **


	3. The Photos

0-0-0

February 14th - America's voicemail

"Guten morgen, its Liechtenstein. I hope I haven't interrupted anything important. I'm calling to remind you that I'll be hosting the next World Conference, taking place on February 20th through the 23rd in the New Parliament Building in Vaduz. Thank you for your time."

0-0-0

February 15th - one of their many fights

"You should've given those papers to me!"

"It was a personal letter. _Personal. _One-hundred-percent unrelated to politics and _you_."

"Another? Unrelated? See, if you would just spend more time working, and really committed yourself -"

"Commitment? Every _day_ of my life, I _feel _this place. The crimes, the killings, the people in pain because a _certain president won't make the switch to universal healthcare_. If that's not commitment, I don't know what is."

"How you were born isn't commitment. I was born with a lisp, I fixed it, I moved on."

"This isn't a_ lisp_, hell, I - have you _felt _the stock market drop? You haven't."

"Don't assume that, don't assume anything, just get your hands off your boyfriend and get your head back where it should be."

"Don't you _dare _bring him into this! It's none of your business!"

"I think it's completely my business."

0-0-0

February 17th - the meeting of the boss

"You are going to be polite", England said, tweaking America's soot-black tie. "You are going to be calm. You are going to be _yourself._"

"Shouldn't I be the one giving you this pep-talk?"

"Yes, but I've got thousands of years of experience of buttering people up and you need to work on your manners."

America pouted and stuck out his tongue, earning himself a soft slap on the chest.

"In all seriousness, idiot - whether you like him or not, you've got to behave yourself. Moping won't accomplish anything."

"I bet you're real nice to your bosses, too, Mr. I'll-die-unless-I-insult-at-least-ten-people-daily."

England wrinkled his nose. "First off, that wasn't even clever, and secondly . . . well, you're right, it would do me good to follow my own advice."

Grinning, America swung towards the mirror and popped his hip, striking a pose. "So, how do I look?"

Brow crinkled, England flicked a piece of lint off his partner's broad shoulder and took the question much too seriously. "Dashing, actually." He glanced at his own reflection. "How about me?"

"Y'look old."

"_Thanks_."

"Kidding, kidding, but seriously, you're eyebrows age you like, ten years."

"Ooh, _ten years_. I'll assume you mean human-wise."

"Well duh, Sherlock. Don't worry, I still love you. And the eyebrows."

"Would you please stop referring to my facial hair as if it were a living entity separate from myself?"

"I don't know what the heck you just said, but I'm going to answer 'no' and move on." Looking to his bare wrist, America requested, "Time check?"

"Alright." England folded back a sleeve cuff, revealing a pale silver watch. "I didn't adjust it coming from London, so factoring in the time difference . . . three minutes 'till noon."

"We might as well get in there", said America, craning his neck towards the door through which his boss was waiting. England shook his head.

"No, not yet. I need you to promise me something."

"Umm, okay."

The shorter of the two wrapped one arm around America's middle and pressed his hand against his own, joining their fingers like puzzle pieces and closing the gap between them. "Listen well and good. Whatever goes on in there, _I'm fine. _Nothing he says is going to hurt me. I'd never break into tears over a little thing like this."

"This ain't little, dude."

"Comparatively, it is."

"Comparative to what?"

"War."

"Aw, come on, you can't compare them."

"But I can. Love_ is_ war, sweetheart." England leans in to kiss America, a quick peck on the lips. "Now get your ass in there."

0-0-0

It was Harris' first good look at England.

The man was shorter than he had expected, the top of his narrow head falling at least two inches below America's. He had bleached, unruly hair that split around his ears and a pale jaw clean of stubble. Most startling were his eyes, an inhuman hue of forest green, shaded by the dark canopy that was his considerable eyebrows.

Still studying him, Harris offered up his arm, fingers hooked like talons.

"John Harris."

England promptly took it, being sure not to prick himself.

"England."

"I've heard a lot about you."

"Likewise."

"Have you, now?" Breaking the handshake, Harris angled himself to face America, raising an eyebrow quizzically. England noticed this and instantly backtracked, elaborating upon his previous statement.

"Oh, no, America has kept his mouth closed." That was a lie. "I meant that I've watched the news, and your campaign. 'Getting back to family values.' Brilliant."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it, but you're very welcome."

His play left Harris confused. "Excuse me?"

"You're excused."

The two took a moment to size each other up, scribbling mental notes on their opponents and planning their next moves. Head rocking like a bobble-head toy, Harris was the first to break rank. He slinked across the carpet to his desk, brushing his fingers against it's glazed top and never fully turning his back to England.

"How's Europe fairing?", he ventured, testing the waters. His feeble attempt at conversation was met with a snort.

"I'd rather you not stall any further - May we get to the point?"

"If that's what you want. Take a seat."

Folding his arms atop his chest, Harris sunk into his leather throne while across from him England slung one leg over the other and dragged America down into the chair beside his own.

"I can't say I approve of . . . this."

The United States, who had been trying in vain to understand what was going on between his boss and boyfriend, bristled noticeably, teeth bared behind his lips. England, however, remained seemingly unaffected and swatted lazily at the pale hair falling over his eyes.

"Then don't."

Mildly surprised, Harris said, "So, we're on the same page?"

"Now wait a second", America began, only to be shushed by England.

"Presumably, yes, we are."

"Then why am I facing this problem?"

England's hands rested innocently in his lap. "What problem?"

Harris was blatant. "You."

"Your own _bigotry _is not his fault!" America exploded, slamming his fists against the chair's arms, his glasses sliding to the edge of his nose from the impact.

"I never said anything -"

"I don't care what you said, I know what you meant. If I waltzed in with a random big-boobed mannequin, you'd be fine!"

"Don't say things like that! Why won't you listen?"

Standing on the sidelines, England attempted to regain control (and wondered where it had gone in the first place.) "Gentlemen, I -"

"Why should I listen to your bullshit? How can your brain even work that way? Is this fun for you or something?"

"Fun? You think this is fun? This is not fun, and I am_ not_ the problem here. Try to see it from my side!"

"There's nothing to see but stupid-ness!"

"Gentlemen, _really, _shouldn't we -"

"Stupid-ness? My God, Alfred, if you could hear yourself right now!"

"It's not Alfred, it's America. I am the United States of America, I'm at least four times older than you, and _I know what I'm talking about._"

"Ha! Your brain weakens with age."

"Not true!"

"There's scientific evidence."

"That means nothing! They could probably just be wrong! They've never tested a Nation!"

"How about I have _you _tested?"

"_GENTLEMEN!_"

The bickering pair fell silent, bringing their attention back to a seething England who'd just risen from his chair.

"_Honestly _now. How can you be so immature? I'm genuinely_ shocked_ at your behavior."

"We don't need a lecture", Harris interrupted. Glowering, England directed the next part of his rant over the wooden desk and straight into the President's ears with a voice like an arrow.

"Actually, _yes,_ you do. And you know what? I'm ending this discussion for the day. I'll always pick intelligent conversation on a ridiculous topic than yelling over one. And yes, it _is_ ridiculous. I think it's obvious that America's love-life is none of your concern."

"And you", England hissed, rounding on the Nation, "Why, you're just as bad as he is! I told you that I'd be fine and you _still_ start a fight. I swear, if you _ever_ do that again, I'll . . . Well, that's not to be said in polite company, if either of you can be called that."

The rant complete, England returned to his seat, greatly satisfied with himself. He waited a moment to relish the silence before speaking once more.

"Don't you have a house around here?" It took America a second to realize the question's target: himself.

"Huh?"

"You heard me."

"Err, yeah, but I don't visit often."

"Are you doing anything today?"

"Uh, no."

England spared Harris a sideways glance.

"And you?"

"I'm a busy man."

"Well, get over here, lad, you're going to find the time. This has to be fixed."

Obviously distrusting, Harris approached, gaze locked on America. And the duo stood, glaring, with England wedged between them.

"Now, shake hands."

The two complied, barely, neither of them having blinked since their eyes first met.

"Good, good. Now, America, go get your car keys; you'll be giving your President a ride to your house. Be a good host and show him around. Maybe a new setting with soothe tensions, hmm?"

"_What? _Dude, I'm not gonna spend my day with this b -"

"- is that really necessary? I hardly have time for -"

"Oh, yes, I think it's completely necessary."

"And how will you know we _follow orders_?", Harris quipped, voice bent with mocking.

"I may or may not call America's cell. I expect to hear your voice if I do."

"Seriously, man?"

"Seriously."

Will caving in, America addressed his boss. "Okay, so, I know this is totally counter-productive for you 'cause your probably hell-bent on, y'know, that's besides the point, but I really don't want to piss England off."

"Wise move", the elder chirped. Harris' eyes darted from one Nation to the other, then fell shut in exasperation.

"I _still _don't understand why I should - "

"You needn't understand."

"But - "

"Off you go, now."

Ushering the bickering pair out of the room ("You can't force me from my own office!"), England offered one last piece of advice.

"Play nice. We're trying to improve relations here."

With the closing of a door, the room panned out of view, disappearing completely with one click.

"Oh, and have fun!"

0-0-0

Later that day - _I can't believe we're doing this_

"Well, here we are."

America tightened his grip on the steering wheel and shifted his weight, guiding the car up a short gravel driveway. After attacking the brakes and bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt, he leaned left to kick open the door, promptly hopped out, and jogged up the path to his home.

John Harris, on the other hand, was not so speedy. He took a moment to survey the Nation's house through his opened window. It was smaller than he had expected; really, the thing was nothing but four walls and a roof. Was Colonial the right word? Its foundation was built of fresh looking bricks, tightly stacked and with sharp edges, set alongside walls painted a crisp white. There were black shutters on only two of the four windows and yellowed grass in a front yard that looked naked lacking a fence. The American flag hung limp on its pole.

"Yo! You coming already?"

Harris didn't respond. Instead, he unbuckled his seatbelt, swung open the door, and tentatively stepped out onto the lawn; America, apparently, wasn't the best at parking and had landed half the vehicle on the dead grass.

After making sure to lock up the car (America had neglected to close the door behind him), Harris began the walk towards the house, sidestepping many a withering flowerbed. America was still standing at the front door while digging through his jean pockets, obviously distressed.

"Dammit . . . I swear I left the house with them . . . "

Coughing purposefully, Harris held up his right hand, jingling the keys that hung from his fingers. America stopped fumbling with his clothing and looked up, surprised.

"What? Where'd you find 'em?"

"You gave these to me earlier, when you were buying gas", he said stiffly. Choosing not to respond, America snatched the keys from Harris' waiting palm and shoved them haphazardly into the lock.

"Yep, we're in."

The door clicked and swung inwards, letting out a blast of cold air. America stepped inside gratefully and kicked off his red sneakers. Eyes shining, he then made a point of holding the door open for Harris, mock saluting with his free hand.

"After you, _prez_."

Harris entered the house warily. The first thing he noticed was the hum of air conditioning above him - Second was the pile of clothes, mainly sports jerseys, swept up against the wall. Behind him, America closed the door and flipped on multiple light switches in quick succession.

"The kitchen's right down here", America said, not-so-gently shoving his boss aside so that he could lead the way.

The two words that best described the kitchen were 'small' and 'messy.' There were wooden cupboards hanging on the walls, one of which was hanging open, revealing a couple of dated Charlie Brown mugs but mostly empty space. The greying fridge was covered in flag buttons and pocket-sized photographs, along with your standard greeting cards. Dirty dishes were stacked all across the countertops and the floors needed a serious scrubbing; America's white socks were already beginning to pick up flecks of dust and grime. Harris frowned, mildly disgusted.

0-0-0

_I should've cleaned the place. I mean, I'm not here often, but . . . Oh, what's the point?_

It was frustrating, to say the least. America was a decent actor and had attempted to play it cool since he had arrived at the house, but it was hard to act natural when the two shared such a bad history. In addition to this, he didn't even _want_ to be nice. The only reason he hadn't tripped Harris on his way in was because he knew full well that, on the chance that England actually called, John wouldn't hesitate to rat him out. Cocky bastard.

But in the end, it was the silence, not the tension, which was really killing America. He needed to say something, anything, to fill the empty air.

"So, uhh, you want a coke?"

"No thank you."

"Oh. 'Kay then. Cool by me."

More silence.

_Shit, I hate this guy._

"So, uhm, you still wanna see the rest of the house?"

"Alright."

"Okay."

0-0-0

The rest of the tour went by fairly quickly.

Living room, check. It contained an old futon and large flat screen TV hooked up to countless video game consoles. Their wires were hopelessly tangled, but the electronics still functioned properly.

Office, check. Nothing special there. It was filled with stacks of paper and filing cabinets.

Another hallway, check. Hardly worth mentioning.

Throughout the house, Harris saw a lot of wooden floors and very little carpeting; When he eventually asked about this running trend, America told him it was because rugs were harder to clean and that he wasn't home often enough to bother with such maintenance.

Random closet, check.

They decidedly skipped the two bathrooms.

Room to room, America droned on in the background. Harris wasn't entirely sure if he was trying to make conversation or talking for the sake of hearing his own voice, but he suspected the latter.

" . . . so that's how I – Ah, here we are! Last, but certainly not least, my bedroom!" America bounded up to a door bearing a yellow and black caution sign and threw it open.

_Well._

It was as if a delivery truck heading for a toy store had instead come and dumped all of its contents into one room.

Marvel action figures and DC comic books were strewn across the floor while Superman memorabilia lay on every available surface. A dartboard, missing the darts, was dangling from a rope duck-taped to the ceiling. There were stickers boasting sports teams' names peeling off the windows and a cracked globe, covered in red crayon scribbles, teetering dangerously at the edge of a broken desk. The bedspread was patterned like the US flag, red white and blue in all its glory, and the walls were covered so completely in posters that it was impossible to tell their color.

It was a child's room, not an adult's.

"Man, is it nice to see this place again!"

Making himself at home, America plopped down onto an Iron Man beanbag and began to sift through Greenday and Beatles CDs.

_Completely ignoring his boss. _

Taking some time to adjust, Harris stood frozen in the doorway. The setup reminded him of elementary school.

_So, what now?_

For a long time, Harris stared at America, waiting patiently for direction on what to do next. When the Nation finally realized he was being watched, the only response Harris got was, "You gonna sit down?", like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It wasn't such a bad idea, though, and Harris moved to make himself comfortable on the bed. Finding the mattress lumpy, he frowned, wincing as something dug into his knee.

_This is a complete waste of my time._

Finally losing patience, he shifted his weight and pulled down the covers to find the source of his discomfort.

A photo album, with crocodile skin and an unraveling, unzipped spine.

Fairly interested, Harris plucked it from the blankets and flipped to a random page. The pages were thick and the pictures were tattered, all black and white. They usually featured a landmark building, sky or smiling America.

The Nation looked exactly the same back then as he did now, minus the stubble.

Uneasy, Harris was almost ready to put the book down when he spotted a familiar face on a page labeled '1910.'

"Is that . . . President Taft?"

"What? Here? Nah, I'm sure he's dead – _Oh._ You mean that old thing?"

The Nation made his way over to Harris and peered over his shoulder at the photograph. A warm smile spread across his face. "Yep, that's him. I think he gave me that picture or something. See, there's me, waving in the background."

Harris stared blankly at the photo.

_100 years ago._ 100 years ago, Taft lived and died, and the man standing next to Harris had outlived him, and would one day outlive Harris and his children and their children.

"You're makin' some weird faces. You mad?" _I hope you are._

Harris nodded curtly. "No, I'm fine."

"I mean, we don't get along, and you're a jerk, but it's not like I want my boss dropping dead; I'm already screwed."

_But I _will_ drop dead. My entire life is only a minute to him._

"Alfr - America?"

"Yeah?"

"How do I compare? I mean, against the other Presidents you've known."

America's broad smile melted away into something Harris was unable to place, bordering on disgust. The Nation stayed very still, his eyes frozen on the photo of Taft. Only when Harris closed the book did he look away and sigh deeply, his shoulders sagging.

"You're no Abraham Lincoln", he said simply.

Upon hearing this, the President of the United States smiled bitterly. "I thought not."

America shifted his weight from foot to foot, back and fourth, refusing to look at Harris. "Listen, it's not you. Well, it totally is, but not all the way." He began to fiddle with his glasses. "Ah, I dunno. It's just . . . it's stupid. Whatever."

"It's just what?"

America looked up sharply, brow creased. "It's just that I've never particularly liked _any_ of my bosses."

His statement left Harris unsure of how to react. "Why not?" he asked, genuinely curious.

America groaned. "See, that's just it! I have no idea why I don't! All I know is that its just one dude after another. That's what it is with you people, isn't it? Four years and _abracadabra._ One died? Have another!"

"That's not –"

" - I mean, _God, _I know I represent everybody, so I see how I'd be confused, because not all Americans are gonna dig the same guy. But I think I know what I'm talking about, after seeing, like, hundreds of years worth of elections, when I say 'seriously, people, don't vote this guy in', and then he gets voted in anyway?"

"That has nothing to do with -"

" - And how am I supposed to react? I'm the surprise that none of you people see coming. You get signed into office, and then, 'By the way, there's also an annoying personification that we've been hiding from the public for over 200 years that you have to deal with.' Just . . . Damn it. _Whatever._"

America, out of steam, looked meekly at his boss. "The England thing doesn't help either."

On that awkward note, the conversation ended, and only a few minutes later America said it was time to go ("England can't blame me") and left the room, leaving his scratched CDs abandoned on the floor.

Harris, of course, followed, eager to get out of America's house and back home. But at the bedroom door, he stopped, glancing back at the ancient photo album. It's thick, creamy pages, edges softened with age, and glossy grey pictures.

What would become of it?

Up until now, America hadn't even remembered it existed. It's not like he'd take proper care of it. It's not like he cared. It's not like he'd miss it.

He wouldn't even notice it's absence in the pigsty he called a bedroom.

When John arrived home that night, there was a book hidden underneath his jacket.

The photos.

0-0-0

**Sorry, Johnie, that's all the character development you get for a while. **

**Next chapter is where everything speeds up. If you've been reading this story, thank you for sticking with me! Oh, and question of the day - do you prefer multiple short chapters, or a few long ones?**


	4. Facebook and The End

0-0-0

John Harris had a Facebook account.

His wife, Amelia, had been the one to come up with the idea. 'It'll make you seem more accessible', she'd said. 'Everyone's doing it.' And so, Harris had cracked his knuckles and hopped on the bandwagon.

He hadn't posted much yet. A 'vote John!' here and a 'good on you, red states!' there, but nothing more. His profile was still, of course, swarming with activity; he _was_ a celebrity of sorts. In fact, John had exactly three million, nine hundred and seventy-six thousand, one hundred and eighty-four followers, all logged on close to 24-7, who had read, commented on, and obsessed over his previous eight status updates.

Seated at the computer, with America's photo album lying atop his scanner, a click of the mouse marked his ninth.

'Found these pictures of past presidents. Hope I can live up :)'

And that's where it all fell apart.

0-0-0

A random selection of comments the photos received:

'haha lol hes fat XD'

'oh so now ur playing nice guy? your a horrible president'

'that guy in the background look kinda familiar?'

'So cool! where did he find those pictures?'

'I feel like I know the man waving behind Taft. Weird O.o'

'omg the blondie in all those pics was from minnie's post!'

'does anyone else here follow the twitter girl Minnie? that background guy is the one from her Panera pictures!'

'those r 1 of the men who said they were the england and usa from twitter!'

'r they the same guy?'

'It's probably just photoshop you idiots.'

'That is so weird! I came here from Minnie's twitter post, too, and he looks just like the guy from the cafe."

'theyre immortal!'

_In a day, eight million people had seen the photos. Roughly five million 'liked' them._

0-0-0

WikiLeaks had been making history again.

They were growing more massive, more active, passing out scandals and secrets and 'classified information' left and right. Everything that was supposed to stay buried - who's been planting the bombs in Greece, what really went on back in the elections of 2016 - was shoveled up and polished, and with every blow the group took, they came back stronger, creeping into the public eye.

They were a 21st century powerhouse, and they had seen the President's post. They had heard the rumors.

They were curious.

_What were they?_ Those recurring faces; hiding world-wide on the government's sites, uncovered by the hacker group Anonymous, tucked between the pages of history books and lined in ink on disintegrating scrolls from times long gone.

But there was no proof, until the files.

Given courage by the President's photos and the public's already bubbling suspicions, a link was tucked into an email, shipped from some stranger's computer to the WikiLeaks headquarters with a message pinned to it's side.

_My life's work. Please investigate._

And they did.

The date was February 22, only a day after they received the link and the files inside it. That's how fast they figured it out, tracked the meetings, and booked a flight to Liechtenstein.

0-0-0

February 23nd - a packed airport somewhere near Vaduz

"How can Liechtenstein not have an airport in her _capitol?_"

"Hey, no smoking here!"

"Am I the only one who gets really annoyed when Libya waltzes in wearing those all-green outfits?"

"Ah, so _cute, _Lovi!"

"If he ever does that again, I'll have my frying pan ready."

"Did you hear about those awful bombings in Greece? Poor guy."

"I can't believe they _dared_ call the atrocious chain-restaurant food they were peddling 'Chinese.'"

"Hey, Iggy! _Iggy, wait up!"_

The blonde in question slowed to a halt, letting the Nations at his back surge forward and overtake him, absorbed into sea of travelers and destinations.

"Where have you been?", England asked, raising his voice over the surrounding crowd's din. "I tried calling you."

"I was crazy busy - sorry 'bout that, man."

Grinning, America raised his hand for a high-five, which England hesitantly returned, the beginnings of a smirk tweaking his mouth.

"Well _hurrah_ for public displays of affection", he joked. America's reaction wasn't what he had expected: the bright smile seemed to dwindle slightly, sinking the elder's stomach.

"Hey, dear, are you alright?"

America nodded dazedly. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

"I suppose I said something wrong, then."

"What? No, I'm fine." Reinforcing this, America stretched a smile across his face and flashed a thumbs up with his free hand. Fingernails scraping the needlework of his dress pant's pocket, England was ready to persist, unconvinced, when a rough palm was clamped on top of his shoulder.

"Hey-yo, mates!"

Besides the ever-present Band-Aid glued to the bridge of his nose, their visitor had three long, reddened claw-marks running down his cheek and a white cast wrapped from the top of his arm to the tips of his fingers.

"Australia, what the hell happened to you?" The adventurer laughed and knocked England playfully on the arm, wincing when his newly bandaged hand hit its target.

"Nothin', nothin', you worry too much! It's half-healed already, anyhow. Should be better by morning."

England heaved an exaggerated sigh. "You're going to have a bloody difficult time with security. There could be a bomb in there."

"Oh, yeah, I'll be in heaps of trouble, I'm sure." Australia paused, thinking, before remembering his original purpose. "Hey, I'm just here passin' on a message. Germany says we're attracting too much attention, so we're gonna break into smaller groups. Western Europe over there."

"Ah, okay. America, I'll be - America?" The swivel of his head spread to a full body spin as he searched through the crowds for the familiar glasses and cowlick.

"Did you see where he went?" England asked the Nation at his side. He shook his head.

"I didn't even notice he was leavin'. Good luck with him, pal." And with that, Australia was gone, jogging off to catch New Zealand and his flight.

0-0-0

America had gotten distracted by the food court.

It wasn't just _any _food court - it was a huge, massive, deliciously mouth-watering one, with freshly mopped floors and buckets of light pouring in through tall glass windows that hit the ceiling. The walls were lined with fast food chains, McDonalds and Dunkin' Donuts and Burger King, with the occasional Liechtensteiner-run family business nestled in between.

There was so much to choose from, America didn't know where to begin. He seriously debated hitting every store and just dumping what he didn't eat in the trash before dismissing the idea as too expensive.

In the end, he met with his old friend Ronald and an extremely nosy girl behind the counter.

"One big mac and a chocolate shake, please."

Snapping her gum, the teen punched a number of buttons. "That is five francs", she said, voice anchored by an accent.

"Sure." The girl only looked up when America was rummaging through his pockets to pay. Seeing him fully for the first time, she gaped, and when he tossed his money to the counter, her phone was out and filming.

0-0-0

- Across the airport -

"We have enough info to leak it right now, you know."

"No, we don't. We need to witness it first-hand; that's my policy."

Two men stood by the bathrooms, voices low, one fondling a camera and the other a laptop.

"But you _do _have the article typed up?" questioned the first. His partner patted his computer affectionately, tracing the Apple logo set in silver.

"Yes, of course. You film proof, I post it on the site, and the whole world knows. It's all set up - I just need to click 'submit.' "

Machine coming to life with a dull hum, the camera's power button was pressed. Both agents of WikiLeaks shared a moment of silence before setting off on their quest, like knights armed with pens instead of swords and their smarts replacing magic.

"You ready?"

"I was born it."

0-0-0

England should've figured that America had gone straight for the food. Finding him would've been much easier had he known this right off the bat.

_But he _is _taking longer than usual_, England realized as he pushed his way towards the beacon that was the glowing McDonalds sign. He'd been gone long enough to eat at least one burger - Heavens knows, he wolfed those things down. Unless he had stopped for seconds (or thirds. Or, God help him, fourths), he should've been back by now.

Or maybehe had simply been feeling chatty.

When England reached the fast food, the few worries he had were put to rest. America was stalling at the counter, talking with a teenaged girl. Innocent enough.

But the closer the Nation drew, and the more snatches of conversation were heard, the less this seemed to be true.

"No, ma'am, I'm sorry - I have no idea what you're talking about, I -"

"Twitter. In Twitter."

England's pace quickened.

"R-really, I don't know what you mean."

"_Panera. _He say America. President and Minnie."

The Nation broke into a full-out run.

0-0-0

China pawed through a collection of wooden dolls, examining their delicate floral carvings and snapping the largest of the set open to stack the others inside, successfully wasting time before his flight.

"These are Russian, correct?" he asked. The shopkeeper jumped on the prospective buyer, quick to make a sales pitch.

"Yes, they are. Only twenty a set."

"I just wanted to know." Letting the nesting dolls slip from his grasp to the countertop, China's hands curled and sunk into deep pockets.

"Those glass flowers are Belorussian - ten a piece."

"I'm only looking, thank you."

"Of course."

Forgetting the merchandise in favor of another vendor, China began towards the door, only to be stopped by a tap on the back.

"Do I . . . know you?"

Turning back around, and this time, paying more attention to the man, China saw he was of Asian decent and felt his own lips purse. A small tattoo, inked black, stained his hand - the simplified Chinese character for wisdom.

_Yes._

"No."

_You're one of mine._

"I'm sorry, but you look awfully familiar. Maybe it was a painting?"

_It's a harmless misunderstanding, that's all. He doesn't recognize me as what I am._

"I'm sure that's it."

_No, not a race, I'm a Nation. He's Liechtenstein's now._

Intent on leaving, China had reached the shop door.

"Are you sure you don't know me?"

_You used to be one of mine._

"Positive."

0-0-0

Sitting in a black plastic bench, the man with the laptop typed.

Hacking was easy for him.

How he thought of it was simple: the website was a slab of rock and the keys chisels, chipping away layer after layer of stone before it finally gave way.

The website wasn't always rock, though. Sometimes it was diamond, nearly impenetrable, taking hours on end to crack, and sometimes it was soft shale, flaking away beneath your breath.

The airport's website was the weakest he had encountered in a long time. A few taps, and the information came flowing.

"I'm in", he gloated into his headset, "but I'm not cancelling any flights yet. Who are you filming?"

With a static breath, frizzled through the microphone, his partner in the food court responded, "No one - I was wasting battery."

"We have a charger. Turn it back on and keep it that way." Pause. "Is it on?"

"Yeah."

"I'm tapping into the camera now, okay?" He clicked twice. "I opened a new tab. Now, I can see what you're filming as you film it."

"Good. I'm awful at describing people."

"I know."

"Piss off. I can see two of them now - you getting this? I'm pointing the camera towards them, the ones at McDonalds. Which are they?"

"Let's see . . . the guy to the left is the American and we haven't confirmed what the other is, but he's either English, Irish or Welsh. Probably English."

"D'you think they're worth watching?"

"No. They're talking with a civilian; nothing's going to slip. Go find some all alone."

0-0-0

"_Nein._ Nein, nein, _sie sind falsch_." That's all of England's German, shriveled up and dead on the ground. "Oh, bloody hell, we're not famous, I have no idea what you're talking about."

They had been arguing with the teenaged girl for at least a minute, to no avail - her knowledge of the English language didn't stretch beyond 'good morning' and 'money', the typical words you'd need for working at a restaurant. It was like trying to persuade a brick wall. Defeated, England took a step back, rubbing his aching forehead and leaving America to plead.

"What don't you understand? Just delete those pictures you took, okay?"

"Say, immortal?"

"No, no, my God, we're not, we're normal, just delete those pictures I saw you take of me earlier, _please! Now. _Get rid of them!"

She looked at him, frozen and borderline fearful, as America continued to beg, his words growing in intensity. England watched on, silent.

"_Please, please,_ act like it never happened. It's nothing. It's nothing, my God, just delete them! Or at least, don't do anything with them! Do nothing with them, okay?"

"We're making it even worse", England interjected at last, voice cracking. "_Alfred_, I - walk away."

"She -"

"- _Just_", a deep, shuddering breath, "walk away. We're going to just . . . walk away."

Slipping his arm around America's, England adopted a heavy Irish accent (always confusing for non-native English speakers) in an attempt to even further disguise his words.

"She just thinks we're crazy", he spoke in a low monotone, "Nothing lost, we're just insane online celebrities to her. There's no meaning to the country names."

With shivers running down his spine, America let himself be steered by England, who continued to murmur, as the teen watched, now obviously afraid. They'd barely moved a foot when they were stopped by a muscular security guard, his badge shining.

"What's going on here?"

"Nothing", England said hastily, reverting back to his true accent. Perhaps _too _hastily; the guard looked them over suspiciously before addressing the girl. _"__Was ist passiert?"_

The girl blabbered something in German, glancing from her phone to the Nations. Frowning, the security guard translated.

"She says she wanted a photo."

"We know."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

With a nervous glance, the girl spoke frantically, gesturing towards America.

"She says you're famous on the internet, and, err, _'Minnie_'", he scratched his neck and checked for approval, unconfident in his pronunciation, "tweeted about you two."

Having not partook in the conversation so far, America collected himself and feigned innocence. "Dude, what? No way."

England nodded eagerly, playing along. "She must've mistaken us for someone else."

After hearing the Nation's excuses relayed in German, and what the English-speakers could only guess was a sharp scolding, the girl finally bit her tongue. Looking to the Nations, the guard shrugged, apologetic.

"I'm sorry for the hassle. Kids these days. If there's anything I can do for you -"

"R-really, it's fine.

Both America and England's hearts beating wildly, they left while they still had the chance.

Crisis averted.

Momentarily.

0-0-0

Walking side-by-side, Japan's hands clasped and Greece coughing heavily, they made their way down the airport's hall, detached but within shouting-range of the other Nations.

"They've split by continent", observed Japan, eying the group. His implication lay untouched for a good while before Greece breathed a one-word reply.

"Stay."

"If you'll have me."

In silence, they continued to walk. Glass storefronts and souvenir shops shined to their either side, featuring windows of key-chains, baseball caps and a rainbow of gum. With a small start, Japan recognized China through the glass and quickly turned his head to the TV blaring above them. His neck was bent at an awkward angle, but he took a long moment to make sure that he was past his former brother before relaxing. Long enough, in fact, so that the program airing on the television grabbed his attention.

The news.

Frowning at what he saw, Japan followed Greece's gaze to a large kitten plushie on display in a store before easing him from his daydreams with a light pull to the sleeve.

"My apologizes, but is that your home?"

"Huh?"

"The TV above you", Japan guided him, patient, "I believe that's your place, Greece-san."

Greece scanned the walls lazily before focusing in on his target.

The TV was still broadcasting the news, complete with a white-lettered ribbon sliding across the screen's lower half that carried more still announcements. The subject of the report was a building, most likely a hospital, surrounded by flickering blue and red lights (and no fire, Japan noted). A yellow box was tucked in the upper-right corner, reading 'live.'

"Do you know what's happening?", Japan continued. Greece paused and shook his head slowly, appearing deep in thought.

"You know about the . . . emergencies lately", he began, but cut himself off, eyes widening as the sirens wailed.

The building had exploded.

And suddenly, Greece's arm was ripped open, skin slit like a zipper by some invisible force.

"_Ohh_ -" He doubled over, glassy-eyed, his right hand flying to the sleeve soaked red. And then he collapsed, smashing his head against the tread-upon tile floor as his body went limp.

0-0-0

"Oh my God - oh my fucking God, his arm blew. His arm and the building blew at the _same fucking time."_

"Did you get that on camera?"

"Fuck, you saw I did. Who is he?"

"Checking files, he's - oh my God. God, oh, God, that's the _Greek. _It's all fucking true!"

"My God, God, you - Tell everyone. Post it on the site", the man ordered, awestruck, as he watched civilians yelp and swerve to avoid the blood splatters on the floor.

"Post it, _now_."

0-0-0

www . wikileaks . org, updated February 23rd - Breaking News!

0-0-0


	5. The Airport

10:53 AM, February 23rd - WikiLeaks Official Homepage - Breaking News!

Citizens of the globe, we've been bringing you the truth and only the truth since 2007. But with the pure size and scope of this discovery, we doubt you'll believe us. Please, trust in the organization whose agents have faced arrest, imprisonment, and torture standing up for your basic human right of access to information.

Allying ourselves with the notorious group _Anonymous, _we've infiltrated high-traffic websites such as YouTube and Facebook, redirecting all visitors here. While we hate to inconvenience the general public, this is an international issue of huge importance. No one will be left in the dark any longer,

The countries of the world double as humans. For for every nation, there is an immortal personification.

As outlandish as this sounds, it cannot be denied. The proof was simple enough to find - another example how clumsy the government can be. In the link following this article, we've attached all the photos, documents, news articles, and more from throughout history and across the world that support the truth that the countries have been personified.

You've probably heard of the recent scandal involving the United States President John Harris posting a 100-year old picture with a man in the background recently sighted by internet-sensation Minnie. That same man is the personification of the United States of America. His files are here.

While we're not clear on how this happened, or when it first began, we're positive of the link between these people and the countries of our world. More updates soon.

Currently, we're in the Zürich Airport alongside these beings and we're streaming the film live. Link to the video.

More details, FAQ and proof can be found here.

0-0-0

11:43 AM - International cellphone call - Liechtenstein to the United States

"W-What the hellis going on? I was held up in Zürich, flights got delayed, and now- _they all know_. They know what we are, dude, how do they know what we are?"

"WikiLeaks."

"Oh, crap, them? I should've- _this- _this isn't cool, man, I'm flipping out. For four hundred years I've been trying to keep it quiet and, God, what?"

"Listen, I know what's at stake. Stop shouting, now."

"Dude, I'm not _shouting_, I'm hiding in the bathroom from the crowd before they _steal my fucking phone like they did to everyone else and see the President's number in my history._"

"They can't. Use the strength your so proud of."

"What, no, that'd make it even worse! They're _rioting, _oh, I'm doing one-hundred-percent awesome, thanks for asking. What the hell happened? WikiLeaks, okay, then what? There's reporters frickin' _everywhere_, then Greece was bleeding like crazy and now he's healing fast so the screaming's getting worse. It's not like we haven't been in public before; how did they figure it out?"

"There were photos, I-"

"_You? _You're saying this is all your fault?"

"Not _intentionally. _I wouldn't- you were in the background, it was a blurry shot, I didn't know- you're not allowed to remove posts on Facebook. I tried."

"Shit. And this bright idea -"

"I'm not used to being in the spotlight. How could I have known? With everyone watching me, I-"

"_Not listening!_ You ran, you got into Office, you should know how to act! And you call me the child!"

"_I didn't know._"

"Fuck you, man."

Furious, America stuffed his IPhone into his coat pocket, ending the call with a click. He stood still for a moment, trying to ignore the chaos coming from outside and plan his next move, before letting frustration get the better of him as he rounded on the bathroom wall, kicking it with all his might. The plaster caved in, sending a shower of powder to the floor and a decent size hole in the wall. Cursing under his breath, he lifted one leg and hopped on his foot to brush off a plaster-coated shoe, then stumbled for the exit.

_Screw everything._

Back in the airport's main hall, America stopped to survey the scene playing out before him - the madness he had only just escaped, having run as fast he could as soon as the cameras came out.

The noise was deafening, loud enough that no one knew what anyone else was saying, drowning out all thought and reason in the din. It had escalated to the point where sound was as good as silence - no information was conveyed, no words could be heard, and only sight could be trusted while the painful track rolled on.

Many Nations were held in a roped-off corner, sitting either on their own will or forced down by guards, surrounded by a crowd of punching rioters threatening to break through the yellow caution tape. Most noticeable was Greece, muddled and dazed, with an uncharacteristically angry Japan at his side trying to keep the onlookers from feeling his freshly scarred arm. Beside them was Romano, mouth open and red-faced, while Hungary's arms were bound behind her back, trademarked frying pan shining dully on the ground.

The windows of the food court now glittered with the reflections of red and blue police lights, sending beams of color across the pale tile floors.

Later, when asked by why he hadn't escaped while he had the chance, America would say he had joined the group of struggling Nations because it was the most heroic thing to do and he wouldn't let his peers be captured alone.

In actuality, someone (the specifics were unclear) latched onto his forearm, their nails leaving white cracks in his bomber jacket's leather. America instinctively lashed out, easily tossing them aside to hit a wall and dodging forward. If he'd been able to hear, he knew that there'd be footsteps sounding behind him, and that his display of strength must've gotten him recognized. It was fear that coursed through his veins, the fight-or-flight, prey-vs-predator instincts, as he ran, smashing Austria's lost glasses beneath his feet and leaving glass embedded in the soles of his shoes, when he crashed into the group of restrained Nations, snapped caution tape billowing behind him.

His mouth was moving, and his throat quickly went hoarse, but America didn't know what he was saying. He was in the thick of it, arguing with people he couldn't understand, shoving off the policemen that had at some point (he wasn't sure when) entered the airport, smothered by the same wild energy that pulsed through him. He saw Canada kick, Italy flail, and England's fist collide with an officer's nose.

Handcuffs were brought out. One by one, Nations were caught.

Seychelles had tried to run, abandoning her bronze-buckled suitcase at the door.

No shot was heard, but the next moment, she was tied in a chair, head rolled back with red trickling down her neck, blood hardening in her black hair and silver biting her wrists. There was no screaming, just noise, inseparable sounds, all overlapped and cancelling each other out.

It was surreal. It was the battlefield all over again: war on such a smaller, larger scale, where the alliances were unclear and so was the cause.

America recalled knocking elbows with Russia, their eyes meeting for nothing more than a second. He had given him a thumbs up. Since when, he wondered, had he _ever _given Russia a thumbs up?

Since never.

This mob _was _never.

This mob was never, ever, not in a million years, ever supposed to happen.

Germany had gone down without a fight, letting himself be tied and bound, but not before personally restraining Prussia and making sure the ex-Nation was cuffed.

He'd chosen the wrong meeting to crash.

0-0-0

1:18 PM - 7 nautical miles off the coast of the United Kingdom - Sealand's place

"How could you not tell me?" Sealand whined, throwing maturity to the wind. "You knew there was a World Conference?"

"I wasn't sure until today" Michael Bates sighed. "Besides, it's over by now. The other Nations will be on a plane home."

"That's not fair! I wanted to go! There hasn't been one in, like, forever!" The boy wiped his stinging eyes with his sleeve, face gone red. "I bet England is going to be all smug next time I see him. I bet he's the one who told Liec - _Liest_ - Liech-ten-stein not to invite me."

Sealand continued to sulk, puffing out his cheeks. Used to these antics, and having raised human children of his own, the boss barely gave his Nation a second glance.

"Even if I had known about it, I still wouldn't have let you go. It's expensive to fly you all around the world, and you need learn to accept it when things don't go your way."

Sealand looked up, eyes wide. "But you're a _Prince! _You must have bazillions of pounds! And I'm almost sixty years old, so I don't need to learn anything, because that makes me a grown up in your years."

Michael snorted. _Imagine hearing that in a normal household. _"Yes, but not in yours. You've got some growing left to do, kiddo."

"I'm older than you! You can't call me a kid!"

"And _you_ can't talk to your boss like that."

Ignoring Sealand's protests, Michael felt his phone buzz, tickling his thigh. Casually reaching into a pocket, he found an email alert on its glowing screen, titled 'Important.' The sender, it seemed, was his daughter. Curious, he pulled it open, skimming the long paragraphs.

Only a few sentences in, his breath hitched.

Michael read and re-read the same words over and over again in disbelief as Sealand moaned in the background.

It couldn't be true.

And yet, it made sense; the meeting had been scheduled there, hadn't it? America must've been caught in photos before, right?

Heart racing, the boss put a hand on his Nation's forearm to quiet him.

"You know what? I was wrong. You're a grown up."

Momentarily surprised, Sealand double-checked, "Really?"

"Yes. So we need to have a man-to-man chat." Sealand obviously enjoyed hearing this, and when the Prince lowered himself onto the floor and gestured for him to do the same, the Nation eagerly followed his example.

"What is it?" he asked, watching his boss intently. Much to his dismay, the older man said nothing, and the quiet stretched on.

He quickly lost patience. "What is it?" Michael bit his lip.

"I'm figuring out how to put it. Can you give your old man a moment?"

Sealand waited.

"A moment's up! Tell me!"

Michael surrendered, prematurely delivering the blow. "Sealand, you're- you're a true part of our family, but you know you're different from me. As a Nation, you have some responsibilities. We've been over this before; Can you tell me what they are?"

Like a well-oiled machine, Sealand responded immediately. "One, listen to my boss. Two, even though I'm stronger than you humans doesn't mean I can do anything stupid. And three, keep my existence a secret." Sealand stared at his boss, awaiting approval. He was instead handed a phone.

"Read this."

Frowning, the boy began the email. Only a few words in, he looked up in confusion.

"WikiLeaks? What's that?"

"They're people that tell secrets. Keep going."

Uneasy, Sealand continued. Watching him scroll through the text, Michael saw the boy's expression shift from shock to horror, and then go blank. Completing the email, the Nation silently gave back the phone.

"Do you know what this means?" Roy asked. Sealand scooted closer to his boss, leaning into his side.

"They..." the boy's voice wavered, flickering off.

"What do you think we're going to do about this?"

"I guess... I go find them, and -"

"No. You'll do no such thing." Michael met Sealand's eyes and lowered his voice. "Remember rule number three? You're going to keep to it."

"But-"

"I won't have any 'but's. You will carry on in secret as if this never happened." Seeing Sealand deflate in his arms, Michael continued, strengthening his voice for the sake of his adoptive son. "I- I know I'm asking a lot of you, and you'll need to be very grown-up to handle it, but you- you can do it."

"But _why?_ I don't _understand_."

The boy's heart was racing; Michael could feel it beat through his wool sweater as he pulled Sealand close to his chest.

"It's my job to keep you safe."

0-0-0

2:45 PM - The Airport

As the cuffs were closed around South Korea's exposed wrists, it was a time of reflection.

The volume level had at long last decreased. He could hear himself now, but there wasn't much to listen to. His mind was a blank slate, subject to any outsider's command. He nodded when he was supposed to, sat where he was guided, and kept his mouth closed.

The mob was a daze, surrealistic, like it had never happened, existence proven only by the nicks in his smooth skin and the onlookers' strange stares - but then again, he'd always been stared at.

There was also shock, working like a sedative, weighing him down, a stone in his stomach.

_We just lost everything. How did we lose everything? When did we begin losing everything? I can't remember what it was like to lose everything. I didn't even realize we were losing everything. We're all idiots. I'm an idiot. How did I not stop it?_

3:12 PM - The Airport

Five-hundred and twenty-seven arrests were made, including Nations - a very impressive number. It had taken a full three hours for police to get the scene under control. Flights were cancelled, civilians sent to hotels, the WikiLeaks agents taken into custody and Nations bottled into small rooms to be drilled.

"Is this you?" the policeman demanded, holding up a newspaper gone yellow with age. France sighed dramatically, nursing his bruised eye with a trod-upon silk handkerchief.

"_Oui, oui, _yes- World Conference, 1902, London, I hardly remember a thing but the food." Groaning inwardly as the officer scribbled down a few notes, he near tore the scrap of cloth in exasperation. "Is this not enough?"

The policeman scrutinized the photo one last time for good measure, face scrunched like he'd tasted something sour, before he nodded reluctantly.

"You can go."

Rising from his chair, France stretched, feeling the man's eyes lock on him. For the first time in who knows how long, he didn't welcome the attention; he genuinely wanted to be invisible, seemingly vanished like Canada.

France made sure frosted door slammed behind him.

Outside, temporary camps of Nations had been propped up, built after their occupants grew to realize that they might be spending the night in the airport. Pillows and blankets were pulled from luggage and, after a thorough inspection, been allowed by the policemen standing guard. Stringy caution tape functioned as the boundary between sleeping bags.

France's return was acknowledged with a few weary nods and a soft 'welcome back.'

"What happened?" Spain asked, looking up from his twisted ankle and trying to peer over France's shoulder. To his right, Romano sat, floor littered with Band-Aid wrappers as he fussed over his leg's bloody scrapes.

"You'll be compared to photographs, as if there's not enough proof already. It's painfully boring." France rubbed his temples and sunk to his friend's height, grimacing. "These people have no idea what they are doing! Law enforcement, hah, they just don't know what to do with us. I hope we leave soon - I'd rather spend the night alone."

Spain chuckled forcefully, wincing. "That's a first,_ si_?"

"It certainly is."

0-0-0

4:05 PM - The UN Building - A Formal Debate Among Delegates

"Honorary chairmen and fellow delegates, this is an international emergency. Besides the fact that we were unaware of the existence of these national personifications, which we _will _be addressing at a future time, we now face the more immediate problem of these said personifications being held in the Airport Zürich, located in Switzerland. From official sources, I've found these personifications were meeting in Liechtenstein, only to be faced with the problem that the country has no airports. They then opted to drive from Zürich to the New Parliament Building in Vaduz. After a mob, they were locked into the airport and have remained there for the past five hours. Excuse the infraction of our meeting's usual setup, but I'm opening the floor to suggestions and comments."

A few seats down, a tall brunette raised her hand.

"I recognize Nichole Talbot for the United States."

The woman stood, tapping a stack of papers against the table's surface.

"Honorable chairmen and fellow delegates, while we were unaware of the existence of these personifications, I think it's fair to say that the man personifying the United States can be seen as the US government's property. Therefore, allowing it to remain trapped in Switzerland would be theft by the Swiss of what rightfully belongs to the States. I propose the Swiss allow us to intervene immediately and let all corresponding countries take back their personification. It's only right - they can't remain barricaded in Zürich. Thank you."

The delegate of Switzerland, a wiry man with glasses perched atop a long nose, nodded and scanned the room. "I now open to points of information."

"Point of order!"

"Yes?"

The speaker, delegate of Japan, jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry for abandoning the Rules of Procedure, but I propose we suspend the debate and adjourn the meeting. This news is . . . really unbelievable, and it came from nowhere, and we need time to adjust. We can discuss amongst ourselves during dinner; I'm sure we will. It's a lot to think about. These personifications are most likely not being harmed and can spend one night in the airport before we take action."

"Alright", the Swiss man agreed. "All in favor?"

Throughout the room, hands were raised, standing bent like nails halfway buried in a slab of wood.

"Meeting adjourned. We continue the debate tomorrow morning."

0-0-0

5:59 PM - The Airport

"Would you just look at this bullshit! 'Immortal persons?' What happened to Yugoslavia, smartass?"

"_Être calme, _they just don't understand us yet."

"Well_ okay,_ but -"

"Cuba, please, quiet down. They'll take your - err, my - phone too if they see it."

"Fine. Sorry." Cuba glared at the article in disgust before passing it on. "Hey, Switzerland, you seen this shit yet?" The neutral Nation, sitting slumped against a wall, glanced up as the phone was flung his way, catching it between his gloved fingers.

"This is the WikiLeaks thing?" he questioned.

Cuba grunted. "The one and only."

"I don't want to see it." Switzerland returned the phone, keeping his gaze averted. "We know what happened."

Cuba shrugged. "Suit yourself, man."

As Cuba continued to say something about needing a cigarette, Switzerland exhaled deeply, pushing himself to his feet. They weren't allowed to leave the airport, obviously, not even the main hall, but taking a stroll through their makeshift camp to clear his head had to be allowed.

Walking, he passed Finland and Sweden, the latter's leg bent at an angle that made even Switzerland cringe. Taiwan had a wet, bloody nose, soaking her crisp white collar, but ignore it she did as she fussed over China's torn sleeve. There were worse injuries, too, hidden among the huddled masses.

Switzerland knew he was good at coping with disasters. Housing refugees during wars and dealing with famine, these were his specialties. The young man prided himself on his ability to remain strong and steadfast no matter what he was faced with.

But what Switzerland was _not _prepared to see was Liechtenstein crying.

"Liechtenstein! What happened? Are you alright?"

In a flash, he was at her side, cursing himself for not seeing her before. Last time he had checked on her, only half an hour ago, she'd been with Seychelles, helping wash the blood from her dress. Switzerland felt his fists curl, _daring_ the other Nations to ignore his sister, but in truth, she was easy to miss in the camp of tired men and women, curled with a hand-knit blanket, her head angled downwards so that you might miss the tears if you weren't looking closely. Hearing her brother's voice, Liechtenstein bit her lip, appearing to duck away in shame.

"I'm f-fine, big b- Switzerland."

"You were crying", he insisted, kneeling by her side and genuinely worried. "I know, I know this is hard but I promise you'll be fine in the end, we -"

"That's not it", she squeaked, voice cracking. "I- I'm so sorry for interrupting you. I shouldn't have, I-"

"I don't care. Why were you crying?"

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. What's wrong?"

"I said _nothing_. I," She gulped, "I shouldn't be bothering you."

"You're not bothering me, I'm worried for you!"

"I shouldn't."

"Just tell me _what's wrong._"

"I, umm", the girl stuttered, "I know it's my fault. I know it is. I should've- I should have an airport in me, a-and maybe I should've chosen a hidden building for the conference hall instead, so it's my fault. I-I ruined everything! Seychelles said I didn't but I did!" The tears were coming faster now. They rolled down her face in fat droplets, melting Switzerland's heart.

"Don't think that way! You've only hosted one meeting before - how would you have known? You did nothing wrong."

"Yes, I _did_, brother."

"No, you didn't", Switzerland repeated, raised voice startling his sister. Liechtenstein looked back at her cupped hands, lips quivering.

He wasn't good at this.

Taking a deep breath, he stood, reaching down to bring Liechtenstein with him. Standing in front of her, he stood awkwardly, unsure of what to say before placing his hands on her shoulders.

"You did nothing wrong, because you didn't know better. Do you hear me? You did your best."

Liechtenstein ran her tongue over her teeth, almost whispering, "What's wrong is wrong, even if you didn't mean it."

Switzerland wasn't expecting that. He agreed with it, too, on some level; a bomb detonated, killing thousands more than expected: still wrong. A fatal shot from a gun when it was meant only to intimidate: still wrong.

But he did not agree with it when his sister was whispering in a small, broken voice, surrounded by a world that had just come crashing down, and she was blaming it all on herself.

"I don't know what to say to that", he said plainly, taking his hands from her shoulders to let them drop. Shrinking away, she wiped her eyes and nodded, only to be surprised when her brother continued speaking.

"But you're still not to blame."

The girl watched him, expression unreadable. Fearful, maybe, but somehow, all knowing. He didn't like that look on her face.

"Then who is?"

Switzerland resorted to one-hundred-percent honesty.

"I don't know."

0-0-0

_"Tell me a story, England!"_

_"Really, I - I can't think of anything to tell."_

_"Think harder. You gotta know somethin'."_

_"America, I'm busy. Hush now."_

_"But don't you have any ideas?"_

_"No. Not at the moment."_

_"What about now?"_

_"Still no."_

_"Now?"_

_"Listen here, young man - I can't make you sleep, but I'll leave if this nonsense persists."_

_"But -"_

_"I won't have any pouting."_

_"But I'll never fall asleep! I'll stay awake forever until you tell me a story!"_

_"I - blast it all, fine, but it won't be a good one. Once, there were kings, with green velvet cloaks, and. . ."_

8:23 PM - The Airport

For once, America had nothing to say. Nor was England in a particularly chatty mood, but he might attempt to start a conversation if it could improve his partner's attitude.

The mob hadn't been good for America, that was clear. The man seemed shaken to the bone. It was slightly unnerving for England to see him this way; he was usually better at disguising his fears, and his emotions in general.

"Do you want to talk?" England offered, weary of the other's response. America seemed content to remain silent, though more out of shock than personal preference. Which was good, as England had no idea what to say if he'd agreed.

"No."

Time dragged on, clock chime-footsteps lagging, trudging through a swampy marsh. The quicksand gurgled and the second hand drowned, held in place, then pulled itself free with a tick, slowly counting down minutes. With each strike grew their dread as the water levels rose.

Far on the other side of the airport, the food court windows had gone black. They swam like the water of some bottomless well, glinting. Shadows running up his arms, England found himself intrigued by them, and let the darkness swallow him whole.

"Well" he said, not expecting an answer. "It's one less thing to worry about." Dropping his knees from his chest, he stretched, limbs heavy. Thoughts of flying had long since lost their comfort, and sinking into the window's dark began growing in appeal. He'd dissolve into the liquid, un-stacking his spine vertebrae by vertebrae.

Caught between reality and a daydream, somewhere with the fairies, England wasn't prepared to be touched. He prickled immediately as America threaded his arm around his waist, pulling him closer, then thawed, placing his trust in the younger man and leaning into his touch.

Off in the distance, someone cursed. Probably Romano.

"This isn't my fault, right?", America asked, his first full sentence of the hour. He choked on his bark of a laugh, a strange mixture of amusement and loathing. "You never know - it's like, I think I'm doing well, but then something goes wrong and . . ." When England didn't respond, he followed the man's gaze, staring out at the starless night.

Shifting uncomfortably, America collected himself, mumbling, "Um, sorry for being all freaky."

England snorted in spite of himself. "You weren't. _Normal _people worry."

"Yeah, well, _normal _people don't stare at windows."

England froze, snapping his neck around to give America an incredulous look. "That was pathetic."

Struggling to retaliate, America stuck to it, saying, "_No,_ they look at what's on the other side, and- ah, well, I got nothin'."

England nearly smiled, and America rested his head on his shoulder, loosening up.

"What do you think happens now?" he wondered aloud, enjoying the warmth of England's body pressed against his own. "We spent so long making sure this didn't happen, I never thought about what if it did."

"That doesn't surprise me. I, on the other hand, have," bragged England, "and it was better in my imagination."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Oh, yes. It wasn't an accident there. How I saw it, our bosses would die under some tragic circumstances. Horribly bloody, mind you, and we'd have to come fourth and rule over our countries due to the dire circumstances."

"Sounds like a movie," America said. Enjoying the distraction, he asked, "How could they all die at once?"

"Well I didn't get that far - you're making it sound as if I wanted this to happen. How about a pandemic? Or poison, maybe."

"Let's go with poison. That way, someone planned it."

"We could have. The Nations rebelled."

Relishing the ridiculousness of it all, a grin worked it's way onto America's lips. Noticing this, England kept going, beginning to get wrapped up in the storytelling.

"There would need to be a ceremony. I don't know which of us would host it, but I'd rather it be outdoors somewhere."

America considered this. "I guess . . . there could be fireworks."

Scoffing, the elder complained, "You've got no imagination."

"Barbeque?"

"Not good enough. Try harder."

"Alright. A wedding."

"God, no, not after 2011. Nothing will ever compare to that."

The two fell silent, the weight on their shoulders momentarily lifted, only to come crashing down again. America looked worriedly to England, forehead creased.

"But dude, seriously. What's going to happen?"

"I _was _being serious."

"Not funny anymore. Just, what do you think happens now?"

"Well, first, we're going to go to sleep." England moved to pry himself from America's arms, only to be hugged closer.

"But I - "

"America, I'm tired. I can tell stories like I used to, but do you think it doesn't bother me that centuries worth of _my _effort was just blown in a matter of hours? Let me sleep."

Still unsatisfied, America relented, loosening his grip so that England could crawl underneath his thin blanket. Once settled, the younger's arm was back around his waist. Bending over to plant a kiss on the elder's forehead, his action was met with a small grunt.

"Good night, I guess."

"Bloody horrible night, _I guess_."

Pause.

"No offense, luv."

10:31 PM - The Airport

It was a sorry sight; a cathedral of an airport, filled with world powers all trapped by their vows (and pride) not to rebel against those they could so easily crush - and simultaneously, couldn't, plastered in bandages that did no good because their cuts had already healed.

0-0-0

The Next Day

_Thud._

A suitcase slammed against the tile floor, effectively snapping America awake. With consciousness came a massive headache and storm of unwanted memories.

"H- uh?"

"Get up, now. We don't have all forever."

Drowsy, America squinted through sleep-filled eyes. It was none other than John Harris that loomed over him, tapping his watch. Hastily, he withdrew the arm tied around sleeping England's waist and ran it through his hair, splitting the knots.

Not that he cared, but the President looked worse for the wear, cup of coffee in hand and dark bags under his eyes.

"So where have you been, _prez_?"

John ignored the jibe, pointing at the suitcase and then to the door.

"The UN made their choice. You're free to go - that is, you're coming with me."

0-0-0

**A/N - I'm thinking of combining this with chapter four, but I won't do that yet. I learnt how hard it is to write the same scenario over and over again. Why must everyone in this story 'pull out their phone and begin to read the article, eyes widening in shock?' England would totally be an awesome storyteller - he told them for America when he was little, didn't he?**


	6. Helicopters and Long Chats

**A/N: Writing wise, I really want to improve. Really harsh critiques are welcome, in fact, appreciated. My goal is to make this story the best it can be and to keep pushing myself. I won't be offended if you point out the negatives :)**

0-0-0

"You're free to go - That is, you're coming with me."

John, walking briskly, had already crossed a good ten feet before America untangled himself from his thick blankets, scrambling to catch up with his boss. Outwardly, the Nation's steps were light and eager, but on the inside, a constant, unsettling dread had settled, filling his tired limbs.

"Dude, _wait!_ What's going on?"

John continued to move, calling lamely behind him, "I told you, we're leaving."

"No, not - ", America halted mid-step and backtracked, distancing himself from the President. "Where are we going?"

"I can't tell you that, sorry", John said, not looking apologetic in the least. "Come on, my plane's waiting outside."

Even under the circumstances, America was able to make fun of that. "Your what? We're sorta, oh, you know, in the middle of an _airport_."

With a huff, John froze, his grip on the suitcase handle tightening. "After what happened, do you think I'd let you fly alone? In public? _Worldwide, _flights have been delayed, all because of what happened here." Switching the luggage to his other hand, John re-began his walk. "Enough time's been wasted already; we're leaving."

"No."

After a short hesitation, the boss looked back over his shoulder, incredulous. "Please don't tell me you're going to start this now."

America crossed his arms across his chest. The stance could be interpreted either as defiant or an overgrown child's tantrum - from John's perspective, the second. "I'll start whatever I want, thank you, and I'm not moving until you give me answers."

"Answers to _what?_"

America rolled his eyes dramatically. "I've been stuck in an airport for a day with no clue what's going on outside."

"And?"

"_And so_, what's happening?"

Massaging his temples, suitcase back on the ground, John sighed deeply. "You mean, the world's reaction? Disbelief. Angry emails. Protests. YouTube videos. _Riots._" John paused, giving America a weary glare. "Satisfied?"

America twitched his hands, motioning for the President to keep going. "Nope. Just keep swimming, Dory - er, explaining."

"I won't, thank you very much", John puffed, fully decisive. "You're leaving,_ now._"

"No", said the Nation with a smile, the glitter of his teeth balancing out that of his eyes. John, already at wit's end, seemed to bubble over with rage.

"What do you want, dammit?"

Pleased by his boss's anger, America uncrossed his arms to begin a painfully slow count on his fingers.

"One", he stated, pulling back his thumb, "I need to find my luggage."

John glared at him, jabbing the suitcase at his feet with vigor.

"Two", the index finger, "Breakfast."

"There'll be food on the plane. Hurry up."

"Three", America drawled, "They took my phone, and I want it back."

"_Ha." _From his coat pocket, John produced a cracked, pearly IPhone, holding it up for America to see. Eyes widening, the Nation nearly broke rank and snatched it, only to see John's fingers close around its' screen just as fast.

"You only get the phone if you come with me", John reasoned, slipping the object of America's affections back into his pocket with a light pat.

Maturity be damned, America whined (albeit straight to the point), "That's not _fair."_

"If it'll get us out of this airport, I don't care."

The Nation didn't move, caught between a rock and hard place; or, more accurately, his pride and his phone. Uncomfortable, he rocked on his heels, shifting to glance a still-dozing England.

"Umm, be right back."

"_Wait! _You can't - !"

Spinning on his toes and breaking into a run, America left a seething boss and IPhone behind. It wouldn't take long, really; he just had to say goodbye to -

Wait. America looked confusedly around the spot he had spent the night, lips pursed. This was definitely the right place; he remembered the night sky through the windows, the same windows that now towered above him, and falling asleep by the food court to his left . . .

But the blankets, pillows, and suitcase with a Union Jack had disappeared.

Where was England?

America looked from side to side, left to right, but the familiar pale face and green eyes were nowhere to be found.

_"America!"_ No, that wasn't England, either - it was John.

Well, telephones existed for a reason. _I'll call as soon as I can, _America decided, feeling guilty as he returned to his boss.

"What was that for?" John asked tiredly, awaiting the next complication.

Puffing his cheeks, America blew his bangs from the rim of Texas, appearing both childishly innocent and decidedly suspicious.

"Nothing."

"_Nothing?_"

"Umm, yep."

"We're going to the plane. No more God-damn distractions."

This time, America didn't disagree.

0-0-0

"Does my neck look weird to you?" Seychelles asked, aggravating the said sore spot with a long rub by her bandaged hand. She knew for certain that Liechtenstein had plucked the bullet from her flesh, but she was left with what felt like a rather large lump that probably should've healed by now, if past experience was anything to go by.

"Why would it?", her guard - a stand in for her boss - questioned, holding open the door. Hiking up her skirts, Seychelles smiled in thanks, flip-flopped feet hopping the steps.

She hadn't been shot in a long time, though. That was probably it; her body was adjusting.

"Ah, never mind."

0-0-0

"I woke up, he's there, I leave, return and he's gone," England muttered, scrolling through the list of telephone numbers he'd saved in his Contacts. "I swear, if he does that again . . . I even left a fucking _note_. How do you miss that?"

Prime Minister Akton, boss of England, looked on apprehensively, eyes darting from the watch at his wrist to the Nation punching numbers into the phone. It rang once, a short series of beeps like an arcade machine, then twice.

Raising his voice over the third, Akton queried, "And you left the note, where?"

"The pillow," England said dismissively, "obviously."

"Pardon my asking, but what's that on your bag?"

"Oh, that's -" England glanced down at the suitcase by his feet. Clinging to it's front was a plan sticky note, covered in hurried cursive and most definitely _not _in America's hands. "Shit. I could've sworn I . . ."

Fourth ring, and Akton sighed apologetically. "Arthur, you're obviously exhausted. May we please - "

A sharp trill came from the phone, signaling Voicemail. England shooed Akton away as he took the call, correcting over his shoulder, "I'm _England_ now, none of that human name nonsense."

Now, his attention was fully on the phone. "Morning, it's England. I'm still in the airport, haven't been able to find you - I'm assuming you've left by now. It's about seven forty-five, if you need a reference."

"_England_," Akton said, more firmly this time.

"One moment!," the Nation grouched, brusqueness at it's finest. Getting bothered, the boss sighed again, only this way more of a huff.

"Please watch your tone with me."

England laughed, an angry, barking sound. "Oh, sorry. It's just that it's finally sunk in that a sodding _website _took us down, and I - _stop touching me!," _he snapped, slapping off the hands of a well-meaning boss.

"England, we need to - "

"Yes, yes, I'm aware. _May I," _a crackle of barely controlled temper, "finish a one _measly_ call in peace?" Turning back to the phone, he concluded, with much a much kinder demeanor, "Alright, call back when you can. Love you. Bye."

After pummeling the 'off' button, England stomped to his boss's side, complaining, "I'm coming! You don't have to _force _me." There, his cross facade began to melt and, looking defeated, the Nation massaged his aching temples.

"Remind me," England said delicately, suddenly all business, "where are we headed?"

"Classified." Akton smiled encouragingly, adjusting his hat so it's rim shadowed his brow. "This is all under control - you'll be fine."

As he gathered up his luggage, making sure he ripped the sticky note from his suitcase, England muttered under his breath, "Aren't I always?"

0-0-0

The President's Plane

It was a windy day, with powerful drafts well equipped to wear down ancient oaks and exhaust young seedlings. Stepping outside the airport, Nantucket was whipped to the side, flipped over as the gusts worked against America's hair's natural part. In the breeze, his suit jacket flapped, beating much too fast to be Superman's cape and looking more like a hummingbird with broken wings that struggled to break free.

The walk to the President's ride was a long one, right down the white lined runway. Step by step, and drawing closer to the plane, the Nation's blue eyes dropped into a squint - not against the sun's morning light, but unsure if they were headed in the right direction.

When he'd heard the word 'plane,' America had been expecting the usual Air Force One. Instead, they were approaching a bulkier, more compact contraption of forest green. Sprouting at it's top was a thick silver stem that bloomed into a disproportionately large propeller, shading the vessel's main body and making the whole thing resemble a palm tree.

"That", America concluded as a staircase unfolded before him, "is totally a helicopter."

"Oh, did I say plane?" John began the climb upward, clinging to the white safety rails. "I meant this. It's called one-something."

"Marine One", America corrected, his years of lessons on terminology finally paying off. "I've flown in this thing before." Eyes and ears open, he followed his boss, ducking to fit through the short doorway. He was met with the unmistakable smell of air freshener, an artificial pine tree's tang and cheap plastic while behind him, the stairs he'd taken retracted, folding like origami and fitting neatly into aircraft's stomach.

Sitting at the head of the helicopter was their pilot, a woman with a red handkerchief wound around her neck and a tight ponytail. She eyed America with the same interest he did the blinking dashboard, not bothering to disguise her stare. Only did she look away when the Nation gave her a warm smile, turning back to her controls with robotic intent.

Excluding the pilot, the Nation and his boss were it's only passengers.

Navigating the incredibly thin aisle and chunky seats, his head nearly knocking into a miniature TV screen suspended from the ceiling, America found a semi-comfortable spot to sit (it was his only option, after all, due to the helicopter's cramped layout). The armrests were bony, but it was next to a rather large oval window and the view would make up for it's faults.

Passing by, and ducking just as heavily as the Nation had, John tossed a paper bag America's way so that it landed in his lap. "There's breakfast."

"Hell yeah, food!" Crinkling it between his callused fingertips, he eagerly ripped open the bag, peering inside. A yellow corn muffin, soaked in butter - classic. He was about to dig in, peeling the wrapper and breaking off a good chunk of the muffin's top when the green and brown logo printed on the bag's wrinkled side caught his attention.

Panera.

Well, that brought back memories.

_"America!" England yelped, his voice amplified by the bathroom's echoing walls. "What the hell are you doing?" "England, we're late!" "People are staring, Alfred."_

Maybe he wasn't hungry, after all.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

America jolted, causing the bag to jump from his lap to the matted floor. As he reached to retrieve it, he craned his neck to see John Harris seated beside him, legs crossed. "You're sitting _there_?"

"I don't have many options; it's a small plane."

"_Helicopter." _America frowned, re-folding the bag at its original seal. "Whatever. I'm keeping the window seat."

Before John could respond, a female's voice drifted down from the intercom, speaking with clipped constantans and drawn out vowels. To America, it seemed pretty useless to have an intercom in such a small space; the pilot easily could've turned around and spoken with her passengers face to face.

"Please buckle your seatbelts."

Instantly, Harris complied, knocking elbows with the Nation. At this unwanted contact, America retreated further to his side of the row, leaning into the curved helicopter wall. Then came a long, awkward pause, with America nibbling half-heartedly at the corn muffin crumbs that had escaped the Panera bag.

"I'm not the only one" Harris offered, filling the air. "All the other bosses came for their Nations, too."

Sucking the remaining crumbs from his fingers, America looked determinedly out the window, watching as two men signaled the helicopter into the air with neon orange batons. "I knew that, Sherlock."

"And we are at take off."

0-0-0

FOX News, Channel 25

The reporter onscreen wore a fitted red suit, carrying herself with grace and clearly used to being filmed. Behind her was a petite, family owned hotel with white plaster walls, gingerbread shingles and triangular framework decorating it's front.

"Right now, I'm speaking with Ian Russell, an American citizen who witnessed the riots and was unable to return to the States after the Zürich airport shut down. Can you tell us what happened, Ian?"

Tubby and balding, the middle aged man she was referring to nodded repeatedly, overflowing with intensity and badly concealed enthusiasm.

"I didn't see a lot, really", he rattled, waving his hands as the reporter adopted an exaggerated expression of interest, "People started throwing some punches, and - well, first, I got my kids outta there, then I went to see what was happening. Me and the wife left after that, but we saw some stuff, like, people throwing vending machines and stuff. We got home and saw the WikiLeaks news and that's when it hit us what was going on."

Smiling encouragingly, the reporter ventured, "What do you think of the Nation's possible existence?"

The man stroked his half-beard absentmindedly. "I don't believe it."

"Why not?", the reporter asked, glancing from him to the camera.

"It's impossible", he said, "because it makes no sense. People are getting angry about nothing."

"Are you sure? You said before that at the airport, you saw those same people accused of being Nations throw a vending machine."

"Yeah, well, they might be wrestlers or something." He wiped his meaty palms on his T-shirt, looking satisfied. "I don't believe it, and I'm not going to."

"So there's no changing your mind?" The reporter had lost interest - it was the end of Ian's time in the limelight and he knew it, shaking his head decidedly with a small wave.

"No, there's no changing it." He grinned one last time and took a few steps back as the reporter rounded up her camera crew to locate their next interviewee. "They don't exist."

0-0-0

On the Helicopter

"Dude, John, why'd we land? That sign looks Spanish-ish."

"Did you think we were crossing the Atlantic in this?We're switching to Air Force One, getting to DC, and then we'll get a helicopter again to land at the White House."

"The same one?"

"No, of course not. Different."

0-0-0

A Timetable

It took seven hours to cross the Atlantic, flying from Liechtenstein to Washington DC.

The first hour, the WikiLeaks article and video combined received their billionth view. An international network of curious people, one invisible spider web, spun by their lazy clicks of a mouse and the inconspicuous email notification.

The second hour only built momentum. Theories were exchanged and ideas shared - many a chat room tallied up posts mentioning flags and Social Studies, with the same word hammered into keyboards worldwide: Nations.

At three, more people were online, their plates and homepages overflowing with spoon-fed information. The first to form an opinion began to spread their ideas, infecting user after user, with every link a person clicked leading them to two more.

After four hours, having had plenty of time to watch semi-informative YouTube videos and browse the TV's abundant stations for commentary, the people were angry.

By hour five, the first Facebook group was made: NATIONconfidential.

Hour six, and permanent markers and poster board were brought out. 'We want answers', they hollered in bold lettering. 'How dare you hide the truth from us?'

And at last, hour seven.

_The United States of America, Washington DC _- Protesters by the thousands gather at the White House.

0-0-0

The Second Helicopter, Seven hours later

"We're approaching the White House, sir."

It was unclear just who the pilot was addressing, having abandoned the intercom - both John and America gave her a small nod of recognition, the latter fidgeting uncomfortably. His foot was fast asleep after going hours without use, tingling madly, and the frantic tapping of his toes against the floor did nothing to shake the pain - he needed a good, solid stomp to wake it. Irritated, America slammed down his foot, putting a tad more strength into the blow than was needed.

John looked horrified.

"Don't shake the pl-_helicopter_!", he shouted. Much to America's surprise, the President was right - passengers were taught to expect a ride much less steady than a plane's smooth glide, but America's stomping had set a very risky swing into motion, rocking the helicopter into a half-pipe dip.

He was usually more careful with his strength. Well, he _usually _never had to worry about it, surrounded by Nations with a, though still weaker, more equal level of power.

"Sorry", America said, but unlike John's previous warning cry, the apology was spoken quietly and went unheard. Their helicopter was too loud for any intelligent conversation to take place, lest it strain their poor throats; the thunderous propellers above America were like a tornado in both their circular spin _and _volume.

But even so, with padded green headphones clamped firmly over America's ears, the noise seemed a bit too deafening. Stranger still, besides the whir of the engine, there were other, different pitched sounds mixed in, like separate layers or dimensions. If the helicopter's mutant-bumblebee buzz was represented by a horizontal line, these extras would be vertical, high pitched squeals and low fist-pump roaring.

"Do you hear something?"

Again, John didn't seem to have heard America over the din, but the Nation didn't feel like repeating himself and instead peered out the helicopter window at the fast approaching White House.

What he saw made his breath hitch.

"_Holy shit_", the Nation mouthed.

Spread across the South Lawn was a mob. An ever shifting patchwork of people, no, _Americans, _blanketing the famous yard, so tightly packed that no grass could be seen peeking out from beneath their stomping feet. Heads of all colors, some blonde, others bald, circling around each other with elbows knocking, bodies bouncing and hefting banners. He couldn't read the signs from this level, but they looked malicious, splattered with cheap paint and crude illustrations that looked like, if their red, white, and blue color schemes were anything to go by, a butchery of the Stars and Stripes. Businessmen and single moms, packed into one living blob, some with his flag draped around their waist or trampled beneath the soles of their shoes, stained with dirt and water from leaking flasks. _Children _with their faces painted, also carrying signs presumably shoved into their hands by their parents.

What were they even protesting? Such a mob would only gather for -

_Oh._

No.

No, it couldn't be. That couldn't be the reason.

It couldn't.

Never, ever, in a million years would America's good, loyal, patriotic people -

"And we are landing."

As the helicopter reached it's landing target, now hovering above the rioters, the volume level only increased - it was now clear that the source of the 'vertical' noise was the chaos below. Through the window, America watched on helplessly as armed policemen waved their clubs, advancing threateningly, and praying to whatever God he didn't necessarily believe in that pepper spray wouldn't be involved. In keeping with the biblical theme, the crowd parted as one particularly famous sea was fabled to, scattering like ants to make room for the helicopter but remaining in a close enough range to jeer and holler and, hopefully not, throw rocks.

John, too, had seen the chaos and looked worriedly from his colleague to the crowd. Gesturing for America to come close and listen, he fumbled with his seatbelt, drawing on the desperate breaths stored in his lungs to be heard by the Nation in denial.

"Listen", he hollered, holding America's gaze, "I know what you're like. When we get down there, and you feel the need to act 'heroic' and punch a bystander, _don't._"

His world-renowned thick skin pierced, America was genuinely offended, bristling with outrage as he snapped out of his terrified trance. "They're my _people!_ I'd never -"

"I doubt that", John interrupted, not wasting the precious time they had as the helicopter's fast descent neared it's end. "Let the guards do their job. I don't care if people recognize you, just get into the White House and go wherever they tell you to!"

Throat dry, America's heart was pounding like the helicopter's propellers. "You -"

"That's a direct order by yourPresident, _United States of America_." There, burning bright, was John's trump card. By now, his voice had gone hoarse, like smoky black ashes left at the site of a campfire.

Feeling too unwell to go on, America nodded weakly; what other options did he have? He was forced to obey both by the law, the vow he'd taken what seemed years ago and the use of his real name. But had he been allowed to speak, America would have asked his President what those people were protesting. Regardless of how obvious it was, how much sense it made, there was no way America would let himself believe the truth without it coming from an outsider's lips. He would never willingly accept such a horrible -

No. _Get your game face on_, he reminded himself, sinking into his chair and bringing his eyes away from the window, refusing to look back. _Take it like a man. You've been through worse in your lifetime. Much, much worse. This is just a mosquito. A teeny, tiny -_ The helicopter shuddered again, and from his seat, America could see the dashboard blinking - _a huge, bloodsucking, venomous mosquito, the carrier of a virus that will infect you and every one of your citizens until there's no more United States._

Oh, God, oh God, oh God . . .

"When we get out there", was the last thing John croaked, like every word put him through hell, "we -"

He was interrupted by the final thud of the helicopter touching down onto the lawn, rattling the pine tree air freshener hanging by the door. Quickly, America reached for his headphones, tugging them off to fall to the floor with a strong yank. Now, without the propellers and engine, there was only the outside crowd's roar, muffled slightly through the helicopter's walls.

After a mere minute of holding back, America gave into the temptation and fixed his slouch to peer one more time out the window.

Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

There, on the horizon, pasted to a sloppily made sign was America's face and a red 'x'.

But no, please, God, it just _couldn't_ be -

"Go!"

Haphazardly and entirely against the Nation's will, the door was snapped open, bending it's hatches with a resounding groan. Then, there were policemen, three of them, nudging the horde away with one hand (poking a beehive) and urging him to hurry with the other, expressions concealed by thick black helmets and shaded visors. How America wished he had one of those when he jumped (there was no time for stairs) from the helicopter to the lawn, grabbed by the said officers and tugged roughly into stride, stumbling for the first few steps before he found the strength to balance on his knobby knees. Around him, the mob screamed in high-definition, their words sharp as diamonds without a window between them and their recipient.

"Move!"

To America's horror, it became increasingly apparent that the way hadn't been cleared for them. There was no red carpet or secret road - instead, their path was straight through the crowd, pushing person by person to the White House's hidden doors. The riot pulsed against him, lapping hungrily, emitting fearsome shrieks and threats that chilled him to the bone no matter how much he sweat.

_"It's him! It's him!"_

Signs and punches boomed around the Nation like fireworks. They were an impending force, explosive and angry, but while swimming at the sidelines they never quite reached America. He was an aquarium animal and they his onlookers, humans with their noses pressed against a glass tank that might or might not shatter.

Incompatible smells mingled in the air, giving birth to a nauseating collective fume that clogged up his nostrils - hotdogs, steel, markers, cologne, flowers, smoke. Wet packets of ketchup squelched beneath his feet, dampening the ground with red goo, and daring pigeons after a meal swooped down from the treetops, maneuvering the forests of ankles and socks to steal lone french-fries between their beaks.

"_Stop_!", America gasped, wrenching free from the policemen to let his gaze roll from dripping face to face in a frenzied turnabout. The crowd took advantage of his halt, sweeping forward like a flock of crows. There was clawing at his hair and a dodged cigarette stump, sizzling the skin of a rioter behind his back.

"Stop!"

Instinctively, when he saw these dangers, whether or not he knew where they came from or who got them there or why, America would yell it hoarsely again - _stop _- to whoever would listen as the riot feasted away at his sanity.

_Hero complex._

That's what the other Nation's would say if they saw him nearly lunge at his own guard when he unsheathed his club on an innocent ("Rioters aren't innocent", the world say, but they were). He couldn't help it. It was a built in mechanism, a not-for-your survival technique: _keep your people safe._

But then, America would hear another threat, see another bloody sign bearing his name and a ripped flag, sense his ego swell indignantly then shrink in shame, and at last feel a powerful pull on his hand by policemen and an order to "keep moving!"

"_Answers!"_

_"What is he?"_

_"Who are you?"_

His heartbeat, his capitol, was going wild, dancing and ducking and plunging deep into his stomach. Impossible to trace, it practically teleported from pinpoint to point on his chest with a shuddering 'thump.' Each beat knocked him over, an execution drum, unveiling another poster board or citizen who didn't understand as much as America didn't.

But he was their _Nation._

All throughout history, he'd been recognized. Nothing like this, _never, _but he'd been stopped on the streets by people of all shapes, sizes, colors and ages endowed with bright eyes and a quirked smile who'd said, _'Don't I know you?' _They said he looked like their cousin or brother, a lost love, or maybe a dream of theirs.

America had always answered 'maybe.' Encounters like those never failed to spark a full body transformation; his stance would grow stronger, in his eyes would appear a knowing twinkle, and he felt himself channel something so mysterious and _wonderful_. Those were the moments where America would feel special for being a Nation and his everyday life was suddenly magical for one conversation, one stranger.

Those people had _loved _him. So where had this come from? The man who was afraid when America looked him in the eyes, the ratty sneaker that slammed against his cheek, and the fact that America almost found himself _believing them _when their rage reached the boiling point; his mind would cloud, opening the gates for fearsome attacks of self-loathing, an entirely new (and extremely unpleasant) sensation.

Just keep _moving._

Maybe the guards did count for something. America stayed safe, enclosed in a small bubble that, while it thinned and gurgled, flatly refused to pop. And with their help, after an eternity of searching and fighting, the White House now towered above America. It's mouth gaped open, chalky lips stretched to the sky with a tongue, the canopied walkway, lolling out, leading to a rather modest wrought iron door.

Reaching that door was like prying apart two blocks bonded with superglue - eventually, after much picking at the thin indent between them, they unstuck, but remained with a nearly indestructible rope of glue sandwiched between them that _stretched_ and _stretched _and _stretched _before finally breaking at the middle.

With officers awaiting his arrival manning the entrance, as soon as America was within close proximity to the door it swung open, swallowed him whole and slammed shut.

Suddenly, silence.

He'd made it.

And America was left standing dazed in the hallway outside the Diplomatic Reception Room, trying to reconcile what had just happened.

In front of him was a small party of people, among them the vice president, a few men in suits and one young, dark haired girl about the size of a new colony. None of them approached him, nor he them.

So, America stayed where he was, detached, silent with his shoulders slumped as he waited awkwardly for_ anything _to happen, hitting the worst emotional low he had in a few hundred years.

"Oh thank _God_."

Behind him, the door reopened, letting enter a fleeting boom of sound and stumbling footsteps. With this came John, darting around the road block Nation with inhuman speed to kneel and take the dark haired girl into his arms. Blankly, America watched as her tiny hands gripped the back of his suit jacket, wrinkling the linen between her stubby fingers.

"Are you alright? Where's Liz?"

"There!"

Peering out from behind the back of a tall woman America recognized as his personal doctor, a pasty teen appeared, fair with a round, flat face and rather pretty brown eyes.

"Elizabeth." John rose, shoulders slanted diagonally in an admirable attempt to walk and hold the toddler's hand without bending his knees. Another hug, bringing the teen's head against his chest. "Where were you?

What she said was far too soft for America's ears to hear. To match her tone, the boss's voice also dipped, scooping low and urgent as their conversation grew more intimate. With the unsettling sense that he had intruded, America redirected his attention towards the vividly painted walls, preferring to keep to himself than watch the family reunion. A few seconds later, however, the teen pulled away and changed her focus, singling out the Nation.

"Uh, dad", she said, meeting the unsuspecting gaze of America. Surprised that she looked so openly at him, the older man forced up one corner of his mouth and saluted sarcastically, even more uncomfortable under her gaze than he had been as an outsider.

Reaching a conclusion through their silent exchange, John nodded. "Go to your room, okay? Bring your sister with you."

Obediently, she left, dragging the younger girl down the hall by her puffy sleeve. America watched until their patent leather shoes were out of sight around a corner, biding his time before closing in on John in the most put together way he could muster - a man to man chat.

"Those your kids?", America began casually, itching the back of his neck. As if they weren't in the middle of one of the world's biggest crises to date.

John raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"How come I haven't seen them before?" Much too late did America realize just how much like an accusation that sounded. Thankfully, John didn't appear to take it this way and instead looked rather pleased.

"They're shy", the father hummed, "Ana especially. She's the five year old. I -" He paused, frowning. "Look, this isn't the time for that. Don't distract me. Get to the Oval office, now. I'll meet you there."

Determined, John started towards the remaining party of worried men and women. That wouldn't do - America wasn't about to let himself be ignored again, not when this whole thing revolved around him. "Woah, hey, wait!"

"Oval Office, later", John breezed, brushing the Nation off like a puff of dryer lint. For America, it was an uphill battle to keep his voice even.

"But -"

"Later, please_."_

"Dude, do you _want _to be assassinated?"

Now that had the shock value America was looking for. John froze, obviously shocked, and his attention went back where it should be. "_Assassination?"_

For justice's sake, the Nation tried not to take too much pleasure in withholding the information, savor though he did his time holding the upper hand. "Well, yeah. Of course."

John took a step forward, eyes now locked on America. "Exactly what do you mean?"

Smug and satisfied, America relented, launching into a fairly well thought out explanation. "Okay, so the Oval Office is on the ground floor, like, on the ground, and the riot's on the South Lawn, which is too - I'm pretty positive they could get there. And then you have windows, which, trust me, people _love _to chuck burning stuff at." He spoke from experience there.

To America's surprise, John looked relieved. "If it wasn't safe, I'd have been warned."

"So, wait, you're fine with it?" Admittedly, the Nation had been hoping to get some panic out of his boss. Whether it was wanted for fun or self-confirmation, he didn't know, but buried beside this malicious pleasure _was _a microscopic seed of a worry. Serious, he insisted, "Listen, I -"

"Kindly stop trying to make things even _more _complicated for me", John , using his voice like a knife. "The last thing I need is for anyone to overhear you saying that."

Hidden behind chapped lips, America bared his teeth. What had he done wrong this time? Here he was, expressing a verifiable concern, only for it to be shot down without a second glance.

But it wasn't like John could ever understand. As usual, America's outward appearance refused to match up with his emotions and with rather obnoxious sarcasm he snorted, "Lemme get this straight. I decide to actually decide to give a shit about your safety, so I'm doing something wrong?"

To further upset America, John didn't appear to pick up on his word's actual motivations (the ones rooted in despair) and said dismissively, "I know for a fact the architect who designed this building has a better idea than you do of what's a safe layout. Just because you've had more time here doesn't mean you own the place."

That was a hard thing to react to. Mind going familiarly blank, act-then-think, America revered back to a wide grin, seamlessly transitioning between moods because he's a Nation and _Nations heal quickly, _emotionally and physically_._ "If you're cool with it, whatever. See you there."

After backing up, but by no means in retreat, America flashed a quick thumbs up his President's way and headed for the door, breaking into a quick sprint. Through the Diplomatic Reception room he ran, hopping over a golden couch and ricocheting off the fireplace and into the Center Hall. The stares he received didn't bother him in the slightest; bounding down the corridors of the White House, they were to be expected, not to mention what he was.

One corner rounded, then another - America knew this place by heart. It practically _was _his heart, which still hadn't slowed from it's earlier shock and pumped red-hot adrenaline through his veins.

Blue room, Red room, Green room. . ._ there should have been more colors. They should have gotten the whole rainbow in there._

It never occurred to America that running at top speed through half of a mansion without breaking a sweat might be a tad extraordinary. Not even when mousy staff members squeaked and jumped aside to clear his path, or when he leaped higher than was probably normal to dodge an ornate vase, or when he ran his hands down the walls and iconic portraits rattled on their hangers.

He had never been one for self-assessment.

0-0-0

Eastern Europe - A Boss and a Nation

The hulking bronze desk literally loomed over Latvia, casting him into a rather menacing shadow; but while the scene was frightening for the Nation, any onlooker would find the difference in his and the furniture's size so extreme it was almost comedic.

As he gulped anxiously, the boy's fluttering eyes glued themselves to the toy in his hands - a small Rubix cube he was frantically trying to solve, taking out all his nervous energy on the mind game.

"Latvia", his boss urged in a powerful baritone.

No answer.

Spinning around the top row of blocks, the Nation trembled, thus lining up a wall of blue and green. His next move, faster still, as if his hands acted on their own accord, was to rotate the middle horizontal row, breaking one solid chunk of yellow and securing a red sector.

"_Latvia_."

By way of another frenzied twist, the cube cracked, splitting down the middle with a plastic crunch. Core broken, the miniature outer blocks followed, disconnecting and hitting the floor with a patter like rain.

"S-sorry", Latvia stuttered, sliding from his chair's seat to bend over and pluck up the shattered puzzle pieces. "I forget my s-strength when I'm nervous."

0-0-0

Comments On the WikiLeaks Forum

**TREKKIE987GOD **_said 6 Minutes Ago:_ I bet the actors in these FAKE pictures made millions off the photoshoot.

**soulznom1nom2 **_said 5 Minutes Ago:_ omg r u kiding? there real u dumb son of a bitch! get ur facts straight and watch the news before u comment.

**TREKKIE987GOD** _said 3 Minutes Ago:_ Oh, the irony. Learn to spell next time. Also, I DO watch the news because I'm watching the FOX report on this in another tab. I guarantee you the 'Nations' are all hired actors. Why? Who the fuck knows, but ignorant kiddies like you just lap this shit up. Thats why moms shouldn't let their 5 year olds go on the internet.

**soulznom1nom2** _said 2 Minutes Ago:_ im not a kid :P im 19. if they arnt real how do u exlain the photos?

**soulznom1nom2** _said 2 Minutes Ago:_ i mean explain

**TREKKIE987GOD** _said 1 Minute Ago:_ SPELL CHECK FAIL. Ever heard of Photoshop?

**soulznom1nom2 **_said 3 Seconds Ago:_ yes i have for ur information. dont assume. ur making a fool of urself here.

**TREKKIE987GOD** _is Typing a Response . . ._

0-0-0

Washington, DC - The Oval Office

America had been waiting for his boss to arrive for a solid five minutes.

Given the turmoil, it was an understandable delay. John had people to calm and a country to lead. But said country wasn't a particularly patient fellow, least of all for his sworn nemesis, nor accepting of his unfair fate: to wait what seemed decades for the President to hurry up.

Upon first entering the rounded room, America took a seat in a wooden chair with a curve to it's back that reminded him of a swan's neck. It was placed very near to the President's desk, or, as America liked to call it, in the 'Danger Zone'. He was sure to scoot it back a bit before making himself comfortable, legs crossed and hands cushioning his head.

More waiting.

With a huff, America stood, long past fidgety and now possessing a frantic energy that rendered him physically incapable of keeping still.

There had to be something to _do._

Making the cross to his boss's desk, America carefully regarded it's ornaments and clutter - one nametag, a tin-can jar of pens and an impressive stash of manila envelopes spilling out from the main drawer. Besides those were an apple sized family photo with a gilded frame, featuring the girls America had seen earlier (with no wife to be seen, he noted) and a boxy telephone set. Nothing special; his boss' desk was nearly identical to the workspace of the men who came before him.

Disappointed with his snooping's uneventful results, America's neck went lax, letting his eyes slide along the walls of the room. A gaze looking for something, anything, that could hold his interest.

He found it, more or less - a visual entertainment.

Lining the walls of the Oval Office were windows draped in velvety blue curtains. With gold tassels around their middle, holding them open, the panes glittered with the light of day, like glass lenses much cleaner than those of America's glasses. Wiping off Texas as he went, America approached the windows, eager to check out his surroundings.

Directly outside were tall evergreen trees of a brilliantly festive hue, well pruned and sculpted by a gardener's trained hand. Nestled between them, camouflaged with the help of branches, were several police officers. Playing guard, were they? The men stood with their backs to America, muscled arms crossed, their gun holsters glinting by their waists.

Unlike the police, the riot itself wasn't so easily visible. It raged on, masked behind the full trees and thick thistles. To even catch a glimpse of it, America found himself crawling on the floor, right cheek to the ground; there, he was low enough to see underneath their branches and use the clear space between their trunks as a peephole. From so far away, the crowd looked as if it were made of wiggling clay figures, molded from pastels . Maybe it would be harder for them to reach the Oval Office than America had thought . . .

Behind him, a door suddenly slammed, jolting America back to reality (and bringing him off of the floor with as much dignity as he could muster). There was John, clumsily rolling back the hinges with his heel while in his arms he cradled a monstrous stack of papers. The thing looked heavy, it's singular pages compressed into what resembled a bundle of snow white bricks. When the President had gathered himself, burdened by the weight of the stack, he noticed America, eyes widening.

"Don't stand by the _windows!_", John cried, rushing across the pale blue and gold rug, "You could be seen!"

Wiping the lint from his knees, lips pouted, America said blandly, "Take a chill pill. You're the one who said we could come here."

"I didn't mean you could be reckless. Close the drapes."

America nipped at his lip, feeling oddly rebellious - as if he were a teenaged Nation all over again. Embracing it, he took his time getting the task done, sauntering from his place by the window to where the curtain was tied. A smooth, jazzy whistle slid from his pursed lips, playing on while his callused fingertips searched the ropes for a good place to grip. Finding one, he let his fingernail catch on a loose thread, using it as a starting place to begin undoing the knot.

"Could you _please _hurry?"

Self-satisfied, America balled his fists around some of the rich velvet, spreading wrinkles across it's surface. With the speed of a snail he dragged the curtain shut, watching as the outside world panned out of view. By hiding the sun, the room dimmed considerably, prompting America to yank the chain of a nearby lamp seated on his boss's desk. Through it's shade, the light bulb shone a pumpkin orange, making Halloween shadows that danced across the ground and hid behind furniture.

Now hovering behind his boss, breathing down his neck, America looked on anxiously as John immersed himself in his work.

"Need some help there?"

"_No,_ thank you", the President bit, crashing his papers onto the mahogany desktop. America heard a drawer slam, then another, opening and closing one by one. More documents were brought out and a pen whipped from John's suit jacket, uncapping with a click.

"Sit down", he directed, scribbling a signature. With a click of his tongue, America sidled back to the swan chair in front of the desk and, squeezing of the plush arm pads, made himself at home.

He couldn't be bored at a time like this. That would be impossible. But America was_ restless_.

The scratching of pencils, adjustment of a watch, and the dull bang of a stamp branding a document _Property of the United States _in blood red ink_._

America, the most alert and eager to work he'd been in years, was being ignored.

With no alternate options, the Nation stood abruptly, stretched, and ducked forward, heading straight for the opposite wall. Halfway there, the soles of his shoes mowed down the rug's Presidential Seal, leaving a footprint by the face of an eagle.

Looking up from contract, John frowned. "Where are you going?"

America said nothing. Instead, he lifted a television remote from a lacy side table and clicked, aiming the controller at a large flat-screen hanging above John's head.

_"- The WikiLeaks scandals", _said a news anchor with greying hair and square spectacles,_ "are, in my opinion, a clear indicator that a crackdown on internet safety is in order. We simply can't -"_

The channel changed with a flash.

_" - at the Airport Zürich, where these people were first confronted. The riots have resulted in no loss of life but sparked a massive unrest among citizens worldwide who -"_

Another order of buttons, another station.

_"Protesters by the thousands gather on the White House's South Lawn to shed light upon the potential threat of Nations, a life form whose existence is debatable. These personifications, if proven to be real, would each represent a -"_

John gritted his teeth. "Please,shut that off. I'm trying to concentrate."

_" - country and most likely function as it's leader behind the scenes, dictating the political and economical standing of - "_

The President's fist clenched around a ballpoint pen. "America, don't play games with me."

After attacking the power button, America hurled the remote back onto the table, landing it facedown to turn on his boss with utter frustration. "_Fine!_ What the hell do you want me to do?"

"Nothing", John commanded, scrunching a sheet of paper into a ball and flinging it towards the wastebasket. It bounced off the wicker rim and tumbled to the floor, unfurling. "Just sit still."

America puckered his lips, considering his next move. "How about," he compromised, "I go to the study and -"

"No, you're staying here", said John determinedly, squishing more paper. He looked like a pitcher gearing up to hurl the trash right at America's face - not like he had the aim to hit his target, the Nation thought smugly, eying the multitude of past throws scattered around the wastebasket. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"It's across the frickin' _hall,_ man", America groaned, "What's a couple of inches gonna do?"

Finally, with a crunch, a ball of paper fell into the empty basket. "A lot."

"What, I'm going to get kidnapped?", America said, voice laced with sarcasm. John's lips pressed into such a thin line that they blended with the skin of his cheekbones.

"That's preposterous."

Again, the Nation advanced, glasses shining with the light of the lamp. His already low level of patience was wearing thin. "Or maybe I'd die of boredom?"

"Boredom? How can you say something like _that _at a time like _this_?", John countered, leaping to his feet with his palms against the desk. "Do you require constant entertainment? _Attention? _You're an honest-to-God brat, you know that?"

And _that_ was the last straw. America had had enough; he was how many years John's superior? About four hundred, that's what, if you counted his years as a colony! Boss or not, he had no right to address America that way.

Without a plan, but fed up with the verbal abuse, the Nation also rose to his feet, standing at least three inches taller than John.

"How about I call you 'kid?'", he began, loud voice shaking. "That sounds better, right? Do you - _do you _think this is easy for me? Sure, you know what, I'm nervous! I've been to protests and raves and whatever but nothing as high-frickin'-energy as that _thing _outside and it's freaking me out_. _But I know what's best - not you, _me_. Maybe, if you listened for two seconds, I'd be able to fix the problems you keep bugging me about but won't let me work on, and then accuse me of being lazy! How unfair is _that_?" He took a deep breath, gauging the impression he'd made on his boss: John was sitting at attention, fully alert, awaiting America's next move.

"I expect you're going to yell some more, then", he deadpanned, silently condemning the Nation with his empty eyes.

"Maybe I will! You would totally deserve it if -"

Wait.

Fine, he deserved it, but . . .

Time to backtrack.

This was the part where, as usual, America would continue to raise his voice until it smashed through the ceiling and, if it were an especially bad day, security was called in. This was where their initial semi-polite debates morphed into all out screaming matches, opinions clashing like swords, a glittering array of fireworks competing for the audience's attention, and America always lost. Only once had he beaten John, but that was with the help of England's slick ways and the resolution was still far from ideal.

Simply put, he never got his way.

Why?

Finally, after so many hours wasted trying to get his point across, it made an inkling of sense to America.

_Why?_ Because John was a _human, _duh, and interactions between humans were different than they were between Nations.

Nations? They spoke their mind, like a resentful best friend would. 'Yours is the most idiotic plan that I have ever heard, period. Are you trying to go bankrupt?' The words they shrieked were brutally honest, for those they spoke to craved no undeserved praise but the _truth _- because if you can't trust your allies, who can you trust? Of course, Nations were skilled in the art of deception, but they'd never bother over something as petty as one of their millions of arguments.

Besides, the Nations were stuck together whether they liked it or not; what lasting impression did a good brawl make amidst a thousand years? With a boss (supposedly) dictating who they spoke to, it was nearly impossible to sever ties with the Nations they personally disliked. That gave them the green light to be as brutal as they wanted without risking an eternity of the silent treatment.

Humans, on the other hand, were polite. They'd smile and nod, a sweet facade, but you could never tell what was really going on behind the scenes. They buttered their brethren up to stab them in the back - not the way a Nation would, with a literal knife, but with sly words, rumors, and social networking sites.

Yes, John was a human, and America was a Nation. Their ideas of etiquette just didn't match; they never had and they never would.

He'd have to switch it up, then. While America had no intention of being _nice _to his boss, following the Nation rules wasn't the proper way to address things, either. Unfairly, John was expecting him to lose his temper and holler like any self-respecting country would and America was determined not to play to those low expectations.

Taking a moment to gather himself, inhaling and exhaling like tidal waves lapping at his feet, America's mind went peacefully blank. Then, the letters filed in, marching in neat lines that ordered themselves into words, and soon after, commands:

A plan.

Slowly, with John's eyes digging into his back, America turned and approached the corners of the forbidden windows. Between his fingertips he clutched the fabric of the drapes, getting a full, firm handful before he stepped aside, dragging them with him. As they opened, drop by drop, thin rays of sunlight leaked into the room and puddled on the floor.

Below the branches and through the panes, America could see that the protesters were still there - he pointed at them with a crooked finger, letting his voice drop so low that it almost broke, suspended above silence like an acrobat on a quivering tightrope.

"I can _hear _them, John."

Besides the rally cries seeping in from beyond, there was a deathly silence in the room.

Then, the President snickered. "Hear them? Oh, really?"

Proceeding to ruin the mood that America had found very intense, John feigned shock, tilting his head towards the riots and cupping his hand around his ear. "Well so can I." He snatched an unlucky envelope lying on his desk and tore the seal with more vigor than necessary, cursing when the tips of the letter it contained were frayed. "Ears are wonderful things."

America dropped the curtain. Who knew his President was capable of sarcasm like that? "I don't mean in that way, _genius_." He brought a finger to his temple, tapping lightly. "In my head."

John kept his eyes on the envelope, creasing it down the middle like origami. "This is supposed to be reassuring?"

Now stuttering slightly from what he thought was a well-planned conversation thrown off course, America clarified, "Oh, shit, that sounded wrong. Like - It happens like - like I'm _imitating _them or something." Always one for dramatics, he put a hand to his chest, the way he would for the Pledge of Allegiance.

"You know what I am. I can feel them, here." That was the truth; his heartbeat was ever shifting and irregular, mirroring the crowd's wild pulse. A punch was thrown and it spiked, a short lull and it lagged, trailing behind the previous rhythm. "And I can't sit around on my ass doing nothing when they're like this. It'll drive me insane."

If that didn't get America what he wanted, nothing would.

"I'm supposed to be like them. So, um, I'm not saying I want to go out there myself - I think that'd technically be masochism and I'm not into that - but, well, being a little more active would be good."

John openly scrutinized him, eyes narrowed. Completely void of enthusiasm, he caved, "What do you want to do?"

Was that an offer America heard? Yes, it was, and that was all the proof he needed - America had won. Grinning broadly, the Nation dropped his hand from his chest, swinging both arms as he returned to the swan chair. He sat right at it's edge, leaning forward intently like he was bent over a cliff. "Well what are _you_ doing?"

John sighed, previously clamped jaw going lax. "Figuring everything out."

"You mean," America nudged his nose in the mob's general direction, "controlling those guys?"

John shook his head. "No. It's my job to decide what we're going to tell the world about you, inform approximately two hundred other bosses of my choice and make sure they all agree without meeting in person."

"Oh." That was more complicated than America had expected. Gnawing at his lip, he suggested, "Do you . . . have an online chat room or something?"

"Sadly, no." On John's desk was a pale silver phone; he placed a hand on it's dial, applying just enough pressure so the buttons weren't pressed. "In any case, contacting them isn't my problem. The arrangements are already made - we're going to call."

America repressed a wide eyed gape. "Like, with cellphones? Two hundred of them?"

"We have the numbers", said John calmly, "and we've also got the resources; there are a couple hundred people downstairs prepared to make the calls when I deliver the verdict. If you insist on helping, I suppose you could join them."

America's mouth hung open in confusion, jaw unhinged, like a ruby cave with tooth-stalagmites. "I'm allowed to do that?"

"No, but I'm the _President_. Self-explanatory."

Beginning to warm up to the idea, America nodded, twirling the dial on his wrist watch. "Yeah, sounds cool. Speaking of phones, actually, I forgot to ask you earlier - I didn't see England today."

"And?", John said delicately, scraping his nails together.

"Um." Trying not to get his hopes up, America goaded, "Could I call him now?"

John slammed a drawer shut. _Hard._ "No personal calls allowed."

"Are you serious?", America groaned. Growing serious, he insisted, "I'm his boyfriend. I want to be - "

"This isn't the time for that", John cut in. "We'll have this discussion later."

"We're _always _having it later."

"Which means we're not having it now. My term is four years - if your relationship with him lasts for that long, we have plenty of time."

"Fine", America said tersely, fist curling. "_Whatever._ Let's get this over with. If I'm calling people to tell them your plan, who's helping you? Aren't you going to talk to more people? This is a huge fucking deal and you on your own could screw it up."

The notion was hastily dismissed by John as America watched him stain a gold-edged paper with flourishes of cursive. "What do you think I was doing when you were at the airport? It wasn't very organized, but the Supreme Court already gave me their opinion."

Coughing into the crook of his arm, America prompted, "Sooo, what is it?"

"Erm, right." John also cleared his throat, muttering reluctantly, "They said to ask you."

"Seriously?" That was a pleasant surprise - enough to cheer America up, at least a little. He smiled in approval, making a mental note to learn the names of the people who deserved a big thumbs up and raise in salary. "Smart guys."

(The Nation picked up on John's fuming - always an added plus.)

"Anyway." Returning to a business state of mind, America brushed back Nantucket, which had fallen over limply (from sweat?) to tickle his forehead. "Just double checking . . . we're deciding what to tell civilians, right?"

Noting his boss's sign of approval, a sharp nod, America asked, "So what are my options? They must've given me something to choose from."

"For _us _to choose from", John corrected. "You're not making the choice alone."

For the sake of time, America refrained from complaining and urged John to continue. "Fair enough. Keep talking."

Freed from the cramped confines of his desk, John began to pace, shoe's old paths overlapping. On his third turnabout, tracing the steps he had taken only seconds before, the President began his explanation, leaving America to chase after his train of thought.

"Whatever we do, it needs to be fast - as in, by tomorrow night. Uprisings like these don't fizzle out easily and the violence will only increase from here if we don't take action." He paused to visualize this, shuddering, before squinting his eyes so their upper and lower lids nearly met. "The best plan would've been to intervene directly at the airport and get you out of there _before _the mob occurred. Then the Swiss had to make it difficult and deny us entry, which got UN were involved, and they hardly helped. . ."

"And the options?", America reminded him, raising the pitch of his last syllable.

"There's no distracting you, is there?" John held up an index finger, beginning the count off.

"One, deny your existence. Few people would forget you that easily, though, especially now that you've gone viral. It would also make things more complicated in the long run when it comes to dealing with Nations; for example, where you'd live and how we'd hide you. Even if we did actually manage to convince the public that WikiLeaks was wrong, if Nations were discovered a second time the people would be twice as angry. This also has us question whether keeping Nations secret was a good thing to do in the first place."

"Makes sense", America chirped, taking the speech in stride. "So two would be to say we exist?"

"That's three. Two is to do nothing, an awful idea for obvious reasons. It would wreak chaos in the general public, spreading paranoia, and I personally think that people would take sides depending on whether they believed in the Nations or not. Plus, it would lead to their distrust in the government, which is never good."

"So two's a no-go", America summarized, clapping his hands. "See, with my help, we got something ruled out already."

"It was already out", rebuked John, sounding annoyed. Slipping his fingers into a loose fist by his side, he concluded, obviously unsure, "And with three, to tell them . . . Who knows what they'd do?"

"Just think about it", mused America, deep in thought. He'd place himself in his people's shoes and work from there. Through this technique came the spoken realization:

"I'd be pissed."

Very pleased with his assessment, America elaborated, "I mean, I don't see why they'd _hate _me. I wouldn't."

(At this, John chuckled dryly.)

Unfazed, America continued, "I guess that's biased, but I really think they'd like me."

"So throwing shoes is now a way of expressing love?_"_, John questioned, obviously skeptical.

"Well. . . That's different." With an uneven nail, America scratched the back of his earlobe, turning the vulnerable skin pink. "They don't know me yet, so it's not fair. But . . . if they're gonna hate on something, it'll be that I was hidden and not that I'm real. So they'd be mad at the people who hid me, y'know, the government, not me."

Looking surprised (but not unpleasantly), John nodded - America figured that was his way of expressing impressment. "Yes. You're right, actually, and that hostility is exactly what we're trying to avoid."

"Oh." America considered this, looking perplexed. "Well, you did hide it", he pointed out, knitting his eyebrows.

"That's besides the point."

The function in America's brain that told him to 'kindly shut your mouth' must've had a few screws loose. Confused, he insisted, "It's totally the point. If we're talking about a problem, and not wanting a person being angry about someone causing it, and that someone actually _did _cause it -"

"That", John said with an air of finality, "is a discussion for another day. Back to the topic at hand, if you would be so kind."

"Okay, okay. Jeez." Huffing, America adjusted his stance, elbows dropped to rest on bent knees. "We're obviously going with option three, right? Just telling them?"

John, caught in a whirlwind of plans, ceased his pacing and came to a stand still, touching his chin to his shoulder. "Yes. It's the best course of action."

"So . . ." Face tilted upwards defiantly, the beginnings of a bittersweet smile brought wrinkles to the corners of America's mouth. "You really didn't need to ask me at all, did you?"

The President returned to his seat, leaning back and folding his hands over his chest. "We all knew what you would decide. Anything else would've thrown us for a loop."

America digested this, blank faced and deep in thought. Was he that predictable? America didn't think he was. Whoever John had asked - the Supreme Court or whatever - what did they know? They'd never sat down and talked with America, gotten to really know him. You couldn't predict the actions of a man you didn't know. Well, not man - Nation. Nouns were beginning to become awfully important.

America wasn't predictable. What would make them think he was?

Leaving the question for another day, America wiped his hands on the fabric of his suit pants, forcing his voice to brighten and rise higher than it normally sat. "How would you announce it?"

"Announce what?", John queried, clearly baffled.

"You know . . ." The Nation looked uncomfortable. "Us."

"Oh." John tapped a pen against a blank sheet of paper, blue speckles of ink dotting it's snowy face. "The plan was to take over the airwaves and broadcast it worldwide on television. Some bosses, myself included, would break the news with a speech."

"Okay. Woah." America's hands went directly to his temples, massaging, then plucked the glasses from his face. Polishing their lenses with a sleeve, he asked carefully, "Can I have a sec?"

John inspected him with an expression that vaguely resembled worry. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing", America excused, his forehead beginning to ache. "Just, shit, woah. This is crazy on so many levels."

"Take as long as you need." America heard the President push back his chair, spreading the gap between them. Both waited there for a moment, John contentedly rotating the pen between his fingertips, until a glance at the clock caused him to jolt.

"Actually", the boss reconsidered, "Don't. Do we have your permission or not?"

America looked up slowly, glasses resting on his lap. The world was blurrier without them; John's face was like an artist's palette, fuzzy peach paint for skin and charred marshmallow black for hair blended together by the hand of a silky brush. But while these colors were present, no facial features were, the man's nose and ears melting into one mutant blob without the clarity Texas brought.

"Well?"

_Well?_ Do they?

"Yeah", America swallowed, shoving his glasses back into place and suddenly seeing every detail of John's expectant face. "Of course. It's not like I'm going to slow everything down."

For the first time America could remember, John smiled. "Good. We'll begin calling the other bosses, then. Could you carry a message? My secretary Maureen should be somewhere in the Cross Hall, I'm sure you know where that is - tell her what we decided and that I sent you to help with the telephoning. She'll show you where to go, the others there will brief you and you'll be on your way. And no calling the United Kingdom. How does that sound for a plan?"

"By the way", John added, glancing towards the open windows without giving America a chance to respond, "I haven't died yet."

0-0-0

Telephone Call #9

_Ring Ring_

"Yo, dude, you there? I feel like a telemarketer but it's way more important than that. We decided, I mean, my boss and me, we're gonna tell everyone we're real nice and easy. So, uh, you cool with that?"

His brain not hardwired for English, Russia inwardly cringed at the confusing sentence structure (or, more truthfully, the lack of it). As amiably as he could manage with his teeth gritted, he asked, "Your country's diplomatic calls are not usually sounding like this, right?"

"Huh?" Through the line, he heard America choke - with no visual to go by, Russia couldn't be certain exactly what had gone wrong, but his guess was that America had gagged on a barrel of artificially sweetened soft drinks. "Woah, Russia? Okay, whoops - there were a bunch of phone numbers labeled with these weird three-letter things and I didn't know 'R-U-S' meant you, otherwise I wouldn't have called, seriously. Uh. They put you on phone duty too?"

_Phone Duty?_ That meant America's boss was trying to get the Nation off his back by assigning him random busywork. Understandable.

"No." Russia glanced up at his boss, turning the phone to speaker mode so America's words carried through the office, heard by both sets of ears. "The Prime Minister recognized your voice and told me to handle it instead."

The implication apparently lost on America, "Cool beans, bro. Are you with us or not?"

Russia lowered the phone from his mouth, holding it at arms length and meeting the eyes of his boss. _Are we?, _he mouthed, tilting his head to the left. After a moment of statue-still contemplation, his boss nodded, indicating with a wave for the Nation to carry on.

Bringing the receiver to his lips, Russia said with a toothy smile, "We are agreeing."

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"All in favor? Say aye."

"Aye", the world chorused. In different languages, at different times, on different continents, they reached the same conclusion.

"It's decided, then."

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The Decision, Announced on Live Television - Broadcast Worldwide

"It is with great solemnity that I confirm, with God as my witness, the validity of a rumor that has been spreading internationally ever since the release of several files by the group known as WikiLeaks. The Nations, semi-immortal personifications of independent States, or countries, do, in fact, undeniably exist and participate in governmental affairs, living under the guard of the said country's leader. They reflect their citizens, government and land, directly and indirectly reflecting history and dying only when the State they represent is disbanded through famine, war, economic collapse or another catastrophic event. We ourselves don't fully understand this phenomenon, nor claim to, and admit that there is more left to discover about these beings. We will be taking steps to ensure the population is familiar and happy with the personification of their country; future plans include an interview with the Nations where the people in attendance will be able to ask questions and get acquainted with the face of their country. This interview, yet to be scheduled, will be broadcast worldwide.

"We would like to stress that we have the situation under control and that there is no need for panic or hysteria. These beings are _not_ dangerous. They exist only to serve their countries and refuse to harm citizens. No information about their whereabouts or private lives will be disclosed. Thank you for your concern and cooperation."

0-0-0

Comments on a Forum - Continued

**soulznom1nom2 **_said 10 Minutes Ago: _yes i told u nations exist! the goverment said it here on TV! /watch?v=4e53hch877s=feature67nation=UL

**TREKKIE987GOD **_said 8 Minutes Ago: _Naive bitch. I bet you still believe in Santa too.

**soulznom1nom2 **_said 7 Minutes Ago: _never did *is jewish* XD

**TREKKIE987GOD **_said 5 Minutes Ago: _So am I. What does religion have to do with anything?

**soulznom1nom2 **_said 4 Minutes Ago: _nothing y r we even talking about it? anyway i was right lol nations are real! told u so :P and u didnt believe me.

**TREKKIE987GOD **_said 1 Minute Ago: _Wow. You're American, arent you? Only they would believe something just because the government said it was true. Politicians lie too, kiddo: it's called a campaign. Oh yeah, and because it was on TV definitely makes it real, just like Ghostbusters and My Little Pony. Basically, youre a waste of my time and I'm never going to reply to you again. For the sake of the poor people who had to raise you, I hope youre out of their basement by the time youre 50, though I doubt you will be. Good day.

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**A/N: Even though some friends are blunt with each other, making sarcastic/fairly rude remarks about their friend, the Hetalia characters are way more extreme than the usual. Since when have you been punched (not playfully) in the gut by someone (siblings don't count) and forgiven them the next day? Creatively and ACTUALLY insulted, sworn at and beaten? This is my way of explaining the harmful/unrealistic dynamic between Nations**


	7. The First Glimpse

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"Talking perceptions, people. Do we really see each other for what we really are, or do we just see what we want to see, the image distorted by our own personal lenses? I lost someone today and the funny thing is, I don't even know who she was." - Jeff Melvoin

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Required Reading for the Average American Citizen

History Lives On - The New Yorker Magazine Cover Story

Airport Mob Sparks World Wide Violence: The Scandal That's Spreading - the Boston Globe Front Page

NATION: The People in Power - TIME Magazine Article

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An Invitation, sealed inside a gold envelope:

You are Officially Invited to the Nations Reveal: an Interview Session with the Personifications of our Homelands

Date: February 26th

Time: 12:00 PM - 8:00 PM, followed by Reception

Location: Los Angles Film and Television Studios (LAFTS)

Formal attire required. Food will be provided, but LAFTS is not capable of nor responsible for meeting the needs of persons with special nutritional requirements and/or allergies. All attendees have agreed to have their likeness filmed and used for promotional purposes by LAFTS. LAFTS takes no responsibility for guests injured, killed, personal property destroyed and/or stolen or any other damage sustained while on LAFTS property.

Please keep in mind that this is the world's first introduction to the Nations. Ask worthwhile questions that will benefit viewers everywhere. Racial slurs and prejudices will NOT be tolerated and will result in the offender's immediate dismissal from LAFTS building.

RSVP as soon as possible. We look forward to seeing you there.

Signed, Kelly Quadman

Director and Co-Founder of LAFTS

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A Phone Call

Sealand had called Finland first.

For hours, they'd talked, and Finland had been the voice of reason. Kind, comforting, cool and collected, everything a father should be. He'd been the anchor his little manmade island so desperately needed.

So why, as Finland rocked back and fourth, waiting for the click, waiting for the phone to _wake _as it played its own lullaby, wasn't anyone picking up for him, when he needed it?

_Ring-ring_

Tried Estonia. Denmark, too.

_Ring-ring_

Tried Norway and Iceland.

_Ring-ring_

Had he been deaf, Finland still would've known that the phone was ringing. He could feel it vibrate against his chest; that damned, never-tiring woodpecker, chipping away at his sanity with inhuman speed. Feeling faint, he shifted his weight, leaning heavily against the salmon pink wall behind him.

Maybe he was overreacting. Actually, no, he _knew _he was overreacting. Finland was better than this. But hours of hearing Sealand cry, hours of 'why's' and 'how could they's?', pretending to be steel when he was really just slush . . .

Pick up and let him be weak one last time.

_Ring-rin- click._

Click.

Click.

Click, _it finally woke up._ Relief crushed Finland's chest and with shaking hands he pressed the phone to his cheek. The power button digging into his skin was sure to leave a mark.

"Sweden! It's me, its Finland!"

An inhalation and exhalation - Finland's own breath.

"Sweden? Are you there?"

Seasickness, that's what it felt like. His feet were planted firmly on the ground while the rest of him spun and dipped, caught above deck in a storm - Finland gulped roughly, holding down the salt water that sloshed inside his stomach.

"Sweden?"

_He's not there. Someone picked up but he's not there. Why isn't he there? He should be -_

"Mm'?"

"Sweden! Oh, yes, you're . . ." Never had he been so grateful to hear that frightening voice. Actually, hell, it wasn't scary; what had he been thinking? It was an absolute savior. Sinking to his knees, Finland took the phone from his lips to cradle it instead.

"Are you okay? I tried calling _everyone _and none of them answered."

"Hm."

"Yeah. Can I - can I just talk?"

"Sure."

"U-unless you want to, I -"

Stop. _There's nothing to worry about_, Finland reminded himself, taking a deep breath. It was time to calm down now, there's no need to get hysterical.

"I'm safe," he said, voice steady. "My boss has been nice, but I'm not allowed to leave her house because some protesters broke into the place I usually live. WikiLeaks were the ones to post the address, and nobody thought to guard it, so. . . well, they have more proof of us now. I kept a lot of really old things there. I'm not very attached to any of them, but I hope they haven't been ruined; really, they should go in a museum. Humans are so unpredictable, we - _Right?_"

"Mm, right."

Those small signs of recognition were holy, a lantern to light the way. Drawn to their shine like a moth, Finland nodded frantically, forgetting that Sweden couldn't see him do so.

"Bosses have been talking about what to do. I heard mine. She stopped when she saw me, but I know that they confirmed it. Everyone knows we exist now; you must've heard the news already. It means we need to go on television, too. Have you heard of the interviews?"

"Yeah. 'S no good."

"Yeah, I thought so, too. I - I'm just not ready for that! It's fine if they know about us, but they can't see us." Finland paused, laughing nervously. "It's like Santa. You can know he's there, but you can't _see _him. Seeing is too much, right? Or am I over reacting?"

"'S too much."

"G-good. I'd hate to be making a big fuss when - I, you know . . . "

You know, you know what?

"I feel really silly saying this, but I'm _scared_."

0-0-0

February 26th, Los Angles - LA Film and Television Studios - The Reunion

No more unsupervised travel for the Nations. As soon as their chauffeured cars were parked, those arriving for the interview were speedily ushered inside, taking the back routes and flanked by bodyguards. They were barely outside long enough to notice the mobs of people surrounding the studio, some wielding signs and others their fists, with reporters placed at regular intervals throughout the scene.

Upon entering the building, the Nations were directed to a medium-sized auditorium draped with black curtains (presumably hiding windows), where they were reunited one by one with each incoming car. Eventually the crowd amounted to at least a hundred Nations with more arriving by the second.

They'd gone a week without hearing from each other, save for the phone calls indulged in by a lucky few. It was a short span of time for a Nation to go without encountering another of their kind, and reunions weren't something they looked forward to, either; In fact, they were unwanted, festering at one monthly, argument filled get-together: the dreaded World Conference.

But there was something different here. Handshakes were willingly given, fingers intertwined for reasons other than a boss's pressure to 'improve relations'. Hushed, frenzied words - 'are you alright?' 'Did the riots hurt you?' 'What are you going to do about _it?_'

IT, the one topic that they couldn't bear to think about but also couldn't resist, to be handled carefully, like nails underfoot. There were tight hugs and shared stories, all while an undeniable fear slithered around their ankles, a feral animal that snaked up their spines with its claws digging n.

And then, there was Poland.

"_Liet!," _ he gushed, crashing into Lithuania and nearly knocking the frazzled Nation over. "Everything has been so crazy! People found where I lived and _burned my house down, _and I was totally unprepared, and my people were shooting at me! Shooting with, like, _guns!_"

"Poland, I -"

"I was freaking out! I've always had bad luck, seriously, I - oh my God, what happened to you? Everything is so _wrong _right now_. _Wars are one thing, I'm used to them but _this _- "

"I," Lithuania took a shuddering breath, weakly removing Poland's arms from his middle. "I'm fine."

"Where were you? It's like you were ignoring me or something. I wasn't allowed to, but I told my boss to call you and he said you didn't answer." Poland stopped, looking Lithuania over closely for the first time. Already troubled, his face went even redder, twisting into an expression of worry.

"Jeez, you're pale. Legit, _skeleton_. What happened to you?"

"They," Lithuania stopped, checking to make sure the group of North American Nations to his right wouldn't overhear. "It was probably on the news, but my boss won't let me talk about it."

"No way! That's what mine said, too!"

"Then you _really _shouldn't -"

"Umm, do I care? Bosses suck, it's, like, a well known fact. I relate."

Lithuania shook his head violently, the swing of his hair showing off small bald patches speckling his scalp. "I have no right to complain. I'm not starving, or -"

_"W-welcome, Nations!" _

Instantly, the chattering mass fell silent to search for whoever had spoken out. Lithuania was grateful for the excuse. "I'll tell you afterwards, alright?"

Poland pouted, sticking out his lower lip. "Promise?"

"Promise."

He would probably forget by then, anyway.

"I. . . I have an announcement to make."

The speaker was a middle aged man, probably the owner of the studio, with greying hair and a red sweater vest. He stood on a small stage, elevated about four feet off the ground, and the poor man looked terrified, trembling beneath the Nations' demanding stares.

Even in their weary state, the world could easily overpower a _human. _

"I'm just g-going over the plan. In three hours, you're required to come here for the interview. It's right through . . . _there_." He pointed a shaky finger towards a door with a sign that read, 'Quiet, We're Filming.' "Until then, do as you wish, but we ask that you stay on the sixth and seventh floors. Th-_Thank you_, I-I'm sorry for bothering you."

0-0-0

CBS News Interview Snip-It

"I was surprised when I heard of the Nation protests in America", says one Ukrainian citizen who chose to remain anonymous. "They look like a people that will complain but never get out and make change. Then, I saw actual footage of the protests and found out I was right. They use signs, petitions and banners but not real fighting. They're soft, and I think, if Nations are truly real, their Nation will be, too."

0-0-0

Los Angles - TV and Film Studio - Backstage, two hours 'till filming

Hungary wasn't accustomed to wearing makeup. Some eye shadow, fine, and a light dusting of blush - those, at least, she was comfortable with. But fake pipe-cleaner eyelashes and oily foundation that would look pretty in public, smooth in photos, and natural on TV? Not a chance.

Bottle of liquid concealer in hand, she painted her face, masking the brown freckle that hid in the shadow of her nose and smearing red glop across her pursed lips.

Hungary felt like a clown.

Worse still was the outfit, selected by her boss.

Her green dress was skin tight, like a bathing suit. It clung to her middle and wrinkled around the waist, putting too much emphasis on the way her body curved and baring what she'd rather keep hidden. Examined up close, it's fabric was woven similarly to chain mail, with thousands of tiny stitches linking together; that must be how it got its ugly shimmer.

Above all, torment of torments, Hungary didn't like the way her breasts showed. For the millionth time that day, she tugged up her neckline so it dug into her armpits, sorely missing the support of her bra. Even after all these years, it came as a shock to see herself this way - for lack of a better way to put it, very _obviously _a woman.

"Awful," Hungary moaned, sharing her thoughts with the empty room.

Taking pride in her recently realized femininity was one thing. Wearing a skirt and shopping with friends could be _fun_, if done in small doses_._ But there were times when she missed hiding her shape inside a suit and drowning in excess fabric. It wasn't that she lacked confidence - on the contrary, she was proud of her muscled arms and toned legs left over from battles past, but there was something about a tight fitting dress and a full-length mirror that pushed all the wrong buttons. She missed not having to worry about how her stomach jutted outwards, the size of her thighs, and whether or not her broad shoulders complimented her slender neck.

Oh, and how could she have forgotten the ridiculous jewelry? Hungary's earlobes sagged under the weight of two glittering earrings and her necklace, a heavy gold pendant, was so cold that goose bumps were bubbling on her skin. Hopefully, her own body heat would warm the thing or she'd have no choice but to take it off.

_Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is most certainly_ not_ the fairest of them all?_

Extremely self-conscious, Hungary began her third full body examination of hips, stomach, shoulders and everything else she could be even remotely dissatisfied with. Then, in the mirror's reflection, Liechtenstein darted by with a worried air so out of place for someone her human age that it caught Hungary's attention.

"Lili, wait! Let me see you!"

The girl jerked in surprise, then backtracked, curtsying politely.

"H-hello, Hungary, ma'am."

Hungary, too, did a double take. "Ma'am? Ah, no, there's no reason to be so formal." She winked, smiling warmly. "You look adorable, might I add."

Liechtenstein flushed, brushing off her grey-knit jacket and pale pink blouse. "Thank you."

"Do you want something more colorful, though? You could try on some of my old dresses."

"No thank you."

"Makeup? Goodness knows I have plenty."

"I don't think Switzerland would like that."

Putting her ring-clad hands on her hips, Hungary huffed, "At least let me braid your hair!"

"I -" With a small stutter, Liechtenstein finally gave in and let the woman embrace her, trying her best to hide her embarrassment at the elder's low cut neckline pressing against her blouse. "Okay."

"You're a dear, Lili, you know that?" Wobbling on her high heels, like a shepherd guiding a lamb, Hungary ushered Liechtenstein back to the makeup station and took a seat. She wasted no time in plucking the pink ribbon from her hair in preparation for what was to come, obviously happy.

"I used to do this to Italy all the time," Hungary smiled, cracking her knuckles.

"Really?," Liechtenstein asked, not nearly as enthusiastic.

"When he was young, oh, yes. He used to act like a little girl! But it wasn't really the same as woman to woman bonding, hmm?"

"I guess it wouldn't be," Liechtenstein murmured, forcing herself not to bolt as Hungary began to tug and twist her hair, pulling at it's roots. She wasn't used to being treated this way, with another's hands on her scalp - She'd always fixed her own braids, as Switzerland never would've felt comfortable doing such a thing.

"Excuse me, do you - _Ow_!," Liechtenstein squeaked as an especially painful knot was tied. Hungary clucked in sympathy, "Sorry, dear," and carried on with the braiding, just as unskillfully as before.

"Are you scared about tonight?," she asked, reaching for a gold bobby pin. Liechtenstein attempted to nod, wincing when she found her hair caught on the older woman's polished nails.

"Oh, of course you are," Hungary answered for her. "You'll need to be brave, hmm? Don't let it get the best of you."

"Okay," Liechtenstein said faintly, praying that not too much hair had been yanked from her scalp. 'Be brave' was a funny thing for Hungary to be saying when she radiated such a wild nervous energy herself, as evidenced by the snapped strands of hair flying at her fingertips.

"Taiwan taught me to do this awhile back," she rambled, wrapping an elastic around the end of her first completed braid. "I've never done it on a live model before, actually."

Wiping her watery eyes, Liechtenstein lied between clenched teeth, "I never would've guessed."

0-0-0

"Hey, so how do I look?"

Lithuania winced at the sound of the stall door, Poland's makeshift changing room, being thrown open, metal lock banging against plastic walls. _Please, oh, please, no pink._

"There was this way better outfit at home that I would've loved to wear, but the fire ruined it so I improvised."

Warily, the Baltic Nation uncovered his eyes and, bracing himself, took a look.

It wasn't horrible.

Actually, Lithuania was pleasantly surprised.

Poland's outfit wasn't excessively masculine or feminine - it was a nice mix, melting into androgyny, with a loose-fitting shirt pleated like rice paper and cinched at the waist by a braided leather belt. Below those sat crushed velvet pants decorated in thin crimson stripes that ran down his legs like water droplets on a window pane. They were obviously tailored to fit and worked well with his dark, slouching boots that buckled just below the knee with a bronze clasp.

"You didn't answer me. How do I look?"

In spite of himself, Lithuania smiled. "Fabulous."

0-0-0

"There, all done!"

Half an hour of painful hairstyling later, Hungary was satisfied. She leaned back to admire her work, grinning haughtily, all the while oblivious to Liechtenstein's inner turmoil.

_I guess I have time to undo the braids if they're awful, _the girl fretted. _But I don't want to insult her . . ._

"You want to see it, dear?"

"Y-yes, please."

Accepting the pocket mirror Hungary gave her with a polite "Thank you," Liechtenstein got her first look at her woven hair, fearing for the worst. The corners of her mouth wavered, as if confused, before at last deciding to tilt up, pleasantly surprised.

Her worries had been completely unfounded. The braids Hungary spun were delicate, like lace, finished off with not a hair out of place. They framed her face nicely, Liechtenstein's only complaint being that her already short hair was now flattened against her head a bit like a blonde shower cap. Hungary hadn't neglected her ribbon, either; it was fastened neatly to the right, held in place with a bobby pin on an especially firm braid.

Pretty as it was, it hurt, and Liechtenstein found it foolish to wear anything solely for the sake of fashion. She would never tell Hungary that, of course, not wanting to be rude or spoil the woman's fun.

"Alright, off you go," Hungary shooed, finally letting Liechtenstein rise from the chair (which she did thankfully). "Show Switzerland your hair, alright?"

"Thank you very much," said Liechtenstein, fingering her new hairstyle. It felt strange to the touch - very lumpy. "I will."

"Oh, and Liechtenstein." Hungary shook her head apologetically as the girl patiently awaited further instruction. "Thanks for letting me do that, dear." She laughed weakly, patting Liechtenstein's aching scalp with a strong hand. "I think it did me more good than it did you."

0-0-0

One Hour 'till Showtime - Western and Central Europe's Dressing Quarters

_"All Glory, All Honor, Victory is Upon Us~!"_

Knotting his tie, England wrinkled his nose, shooting glares throughout the cramped dressing room. "Who's playing that? Stop it, could you? I _loathe _that song."

_"Our Savior, Fight Evil, Send Armies to Defend Us~!"_

"I mean it. Whoever's got the radio, shut it off right this instant or I'll be forced to shove it down your throat."

"Technically_, _it's an IPod, _Angleterre._"

"Oh, so you're to blame? Quick, before it hits the chorus."

_"Europa, Europa, Find Better Days Before us~!"_

Fuming, England stormed over to France, who lounged running a comb through his well-conditioned hair. Shoving the other aside and earning himself a disgruntled 'hmph', he proceeded to rummage through the impressive pile of skin cleansers and powders piled onto the French Republic's dressing table in search of the offending music player.

"Bloody _fucking_ hell, what are you, a woman? Where's - ah, here we go."

England withdrew his hand from the jumble of make-up, holding a white IPod clenched between his fist. "Now, how do you shut this damned thing off?"

"_So _behind the times."

"Sod off, I'm concentrating - ah, this should work."

_"In Kindness, In Spirit, Lead Us to -"_ In the middle of a phrase, the song ended, leaving France to wait in vain for the next note.

"Satisfied, now?," he sighed, taking back the IPod. "I was only trying to boost morale. Pray tell, why would you bother hating a song with such passion?"

"It's offensive, that's why," said England, nose in the air. "Battlefields are_ not_ to be glorified."

France rolled his mascara capped eyes. "Says the British Empire stained red."

With a hand on his hip, England retorted, "Well it's not like I regret beating some sense into _you_, but dead humans are a different story."

"I disagree," France shrugged, turning back to his mirror and unscrewing a disk of blush. England stared incredulously, scoffing.

"Rouge? Really?"

Finally fed up, France snapped, "Yes, rouge! It adds color to the face and defines my cheekbones. Do I _want_ the world to see me looking like a corpse? It would do you well to try it, too, because you certainly won't be able charm anyone with your personality. Really, you're lucky I had the good will to lend you a suit, else you'd be stuck humiliating yourself in the tweed monstrosity you call 'proper'!"

Going quiet, England watched France for a second longer, pouring as much disgust as he could into the look before buttoning his suit jacket and raising his voice importantly.

"Well, while you all _primp_, I'll be going for a walk."

"Yes, do, please leave."

_Slam. _

France, staring into the mirror, didn't see the door thrown shut, but he heard it.

"Silly man," he muttered under his breath, snapping shut the dish of blush. "I didn't mean it."

0-0-0

Fifteen Minutes 'till Showtime

Well, even if Europe wasn't on England's side, at least one Nation was.

"America! There you are!"

The said Nation, preoccupied with a map of the television studio, spun around and broke into a full grin at the sight of England hurrying down the hallway towards him. Dragging him into a tight hug, America would've been content to stay there forever had England not drawn away almost immediately, looking him over like a mother hen regards her eggs.

"How's your place?," he asked worriedly, "London was in a frenzy, heartbeat skyrocketed, and there was some minor bleeding but never mind that. The riots at your place looked _terrible. _Did they leave scars?"

"Umm, no," America stuttered, drawing further away so the tips of their shoes didn't meet. Sure, he'd had headaches, and landing at the White House had been intense, but neither of those were worth mentioning.

"Where in the blazes have you been, anyway?" After putting his concerns to rest, England had made the usual switch from worry to irritation.

"I left late." Statement met with a half-hearted insult ('unpunctual buffoon'), America scratched the back of his neck, adding, "Oh, and my boss sucked and scheduled everything so I didn't know about my flight until two-ish hours before it left."

Losing interest in the topic, England dismissed it with a bob of his head, now curiously examining the stubble that coated America's jaw; his tilted head and wide-eyed expression oddly resembled that of an owl.

"You didn't shave?"

"Didn't have time. Shit, is it that bad?"

"Do remember next time." As America rubbed a hand self-consciously across his chin, England hastily admitted, "But you don't look half terrible."

"Half? I have to rate better than that." Now, it was his turn to examine England, breathing a sigh of relief. "Thank God you're not wearing plaid."

England furrowed his brow. "Funnily enough, that's what came in - well, tweed, technically."

America's mouth fell open in horror. "You're joking."

"Why would I joke? For who knows what reason, France brought a spare my size and literally threw himself on the floor _begging _me to change. It was quite the display, actually, so I humored him."

"But if he hadn't, you would actually wear -"

"Well _pardon me,_ I didn't realize this was a Goddamn fashion show."

Zipping his lips (and quitting while he was ahead), America silently sang the Frenchman's praises. Even under the current circumstances - _especially _under the current circumstances - appearance had to count for something. This was their people's first good luck at the Nations, unless you counted the WikiLeaks files, and they'd better make a good impression.

"So, where is everyone?," America asked, finally noticing the lack of the show's other stars.

England tapped his foot in irritation. "Weren't you lis - oh, that's right, you missed the orientation, didn't you? Follow me, then," he rushed, dragging America by the sleeve. "Hurry, would you? Burn those extra thousand calories! _Time's almost up_."

Lengthening his stride, America complied, and the pair made their way down the hall more or less neck-and-neck.

"We thought you wouldn't make it in time," England breathed, dodging a stray camera crew member. "We considered having Canada pretend to be you instead, but he was dead set against it."

After rounding another corner, the building's grey walls blended into a concrete tunnel and America was getting suspicious. Map reading wasn't his specialty, but he was pretty sure that the dressing rooms were behind him, past the editing station, and not straight ahead. Switching without warning from a brisk walk to a stand still, America yanked on England's arm, tripping the smaller Nation who yelped in spite of himself.

"What the hell was that for?," England sputtered, trying to regain his balance as he wobbled on one foot. "Are you _trying_ to knock me flat on my face?"

Now offering his hand to steady England (the same hand that had nearly sent him sprawling), America demanded with a scrunched brow, "Where are we going?"

Rejecting the help and recovering fully, England scolded as he trudged down the hall, "I told you, didn't I? The room next to the stage. We're filming soon!"

0-0-0

Central Europe's Dressing Room - 10 Minutes 'till Showtime

"_West!_ Just a heads up, we got ten minutes 'til the cameras roll."

Prussia, dressed to the nines in a black suit and button-up shirt, leaned against the doorway with an eyebrow raised. "After this is Hollywood, am I right, or am I right? Unless America's being bitchy, 'cause then India says he'll get me a dancing gig or something in his movies."

"Don't be late, then," Germany said, sitting hunchbacked on a weathered couch. "Move along."

"That's what I said. I'm being a good older brother by warning you that you should get down there, and hopefully I'll get to annoy the shit out of you in the process."

_A very _obvious _ulterior motive_, Germany mused, clenching his jaw. "Please, just go."

"_You_ go," insisted Prussia, the beginnings of a smirk showing off his pearly teeth. Germany's temper was already beginning to fire up.

"You go."

"No, you go."

"You go!" Letting loose an uproarious laugh, Prussia challenged, "You don't want to start this - I will _totally_ kick your ass. You go, you go, you go, you go, you -_"_

"I'm not taking part in this!," Germany interjected, nostrils flaring. Amused, his older brother made himself at home, placing a hand on his hip and using his free arm to prop himself up in the doorway.

"Do I spy a surrender?," he asked, squinting a red eye.

"No."

"Then fight like a man!"

"_No_." Germany really seemed to like that word, didn't he? Prussia's smile broke down the middle, the edges of his lips curling into a confused frown.

"So lemme get this straight. You're _hiding_ here?"

"Not hiding - I only wanted some peace. I can't get it with the others and apparently, I can't here, either."

"Oh."

A shortage of words, a drought, with drops of sound far and few between. As they waited in silence, the noise of the outside hall leaked in and Prussia could hear two men talking. Their conversation was distant and hard to decipher, but he managed to place one of the voices as England's.

_"Hurry, would you? Burn those extra thousand calories! Time's almost up."_

Time's almost up. And still, Germany didn't move, glued to the couch by the seat of his pants. A confrontation was most definitely in order.

"Seriously, West," Prussia warned, testing the waters, "You need to move you're ass. The people running this are gonna do a name check sometime soon and shit's gonna go down if you're not there."

"For the umpteenth time, I will. I never forget my responsibilities."

Refusing to accept the excuse, Prussia left his perch at the door and sat by Germany's side, meanwhile wiping a palm down his scalp to feel the hair slicked back in a style very similar to his brother's.

"Stage fright 'n stuff?"

"No."

"Didn't sleep?"

A shake of Germany's head, gelled hair catching the light.

"No booze?"

At this point, Germany gave up responding altogether, wiping his face clean of emotion so his brother had neither words nor signals to work with.

"Uh, is stage fright _now_?," Prussia grilled, getting frustrated. "Jeez, loser, I can't solve all your problems if I don't know what they are. I'm, like, _this _close to giving up." To illustrate, he shoved his hand under Germany's nose, forefinger and thumb hovering mere centimeters apart like two opposing magnets that refused to join.

No response.

Well, whatever was going on, it was Germany's to deal with. He'd wasted his chance.

Ruefully, Prussia dusted his hands on his knees and lifted himself from the leather couch seat. The albino was still in the process of choosing his dramatic exit, gauging whether or not he could jump the knee high coffee-table in front of him when a sudden realization struck, making his blood run cold.

The only thing he knew of that could cause his little brother to freeze up like this would be . . .

Yep.

As much as he wished it weren't, Prussia knew his sense of dread was rooted in reality. Germany was always thinking about it; every time one of his soldiers committed a crime, it was mentioned in a meeting or even _hinted_ at in the vaguest of ways, his speech would skip, the usual urgency in his steps would falter, and he was suddenly, aimlessly lost. It was sad, really, to see such a put-together man unravel like that with one word.

Turning his red eyes back to his younger brother, Prussia asked with a growing sense of dread, "Does this have anything do with . . . y'know, history."

Germany's reply was instantaneous.

"_No. _No, no, no, I'm not dragging any of _that _into _this. _I'm not that self centered, or -" Throat hitching, the Nation sucked in a deep lungful of air, emotions hopelessly tangled - exasperation, melancholy, anger, all wrapped into what started as a gasp and ended a growl.

"_Prussia._ What are they going to think of _you?_ What you aren't. Are you ready for that?"

The worry was wiped off Prussia's face so fast that, had he blinked, Germany would've missed it. Replacing it was an uncharacteristic blankness focused sharply on Germany, without a doubt watching him, but in a way he'd never before regarded his little brother.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Germany shook his head. "You do."

"I _don't._" Now, there was a fire in his red eyes that melted the snow of his skin. Facing Germany was a different man, more hostile. This was the empire that conquered lands and had almost gone forgotten, buried by the twenty first century, repossessing the husk it had left behind. "Would it kill you to be more specific?"

"You -" Germany sputtered, face going red. "You_ know_ what I mean. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!," Prussia fought, balling up his fists. "This isn't a fucking war - you can trust your _brother_!" And back he shrank, dead crimson eyes gone dark.

Prussia fidgeted with the collar of his shirt.

Germany's pale blue stared him down.

Giving in, with a tone of deepest resignation, Prussia confessed, "Okay, fine, but you suck at intimidating. Before we left, your boss asked me if I wanted to show up or not. I'd just . . . not come to Nation stuff."

"And?"

Prussia's tongue peeked out from between his chapped lips, wetting them with his spit. "I'm here, smartass. I'll be waiting backstage for ya."

"So you're still not -"

" - No, I'm not. Doesn't mean I won't, just not now."

"WikiLeaks released files on you, too. They weren't sure which of us was Germany. Don't think people won't notice if you hide - "

" - I'm not _hiding!_," Prussia interrupted, eyes flashing. "I came here telling _you _not to and I'm no hypocrite. Get off my back, okay? I'll do a solo interview later. Anyway, it's not like," Prussia coughed into the crook of his arm, "_it _bothers me anymore."

Germany raised an eyebrow. "It doesn't?"

"No. You get used to it. Fine, so I'm not a . . ." He made a vague gesture with his hands, refusing to finish the sentence. "You just caught me off guard, s'all. Haven't we talked about this before?"

"You never wanted to," Germany said flatly. Prussia looked confused.

"We _did_," he insisted, setting the scene. It looked as if he was reliving it himself. "1950s, right? Fireside, crap-ton of bugs, couple of beers."

Germany shook his head slowly, unblinking. Genuinely let down, Prussia said hoarsely, "You don't remember?

"No. That never happened."

"Hmph. Yeah, no, I'm sure it did." Attempting to shrug it off, Prussia stuffed his hands into his pockets, shoulders rising to the base of his skull and brushing the lobes of his ears. "You musta been drunk or something. You can't take as much booze as me."

"That must be it," Germany drawled, still staring at Prussia. The elder shifted beneath his gaze, pulling one hand from his pocket to pick absently at a crusty scab on the tip of his nose. Was it just him, or was the mood suddenly strained?

"I'm gonna go look around, 'kay?," he said, ill at ease. "France is - um, he's doing something that I want to check out. And it has to do with boobs. You come whenever."

"You do that."

"Yeah, bye."

Even when he turned away, Prussia was oddly aware of the way his brother regarded him - carefully, _delicately -_ as if he was an egg he feared would break in the palm of his hand.

0-0-0

The Launch Pad - 6 Minutes 'til Showtime

"Hey, look who decided to show up!" crowed Romania, smoothing down his hair. America grinned sheepishly, waving at the small crowd of Nations who jumped to confront him. The ones who failed to greet him still took note of his arrival, tracking the superpower's progress through the room.

("No one would notice if he didn't come, anyway; it's not like he's an _important _country," quipped Israel, blatant sarcasm somehow lost on the Nation's that stared in jaw-dropped disbelief.)

"Yep, no, everything's awesome, plane just got delayed," America excused himself, all the while glued to England by the waist. "I'm doing great, really, couldn't be better. Wasn't scared at all."

After a few more rounds of interrogation, the Nations grew bored, moving on to their other peers and prey. No one else was bound to approach America anytime soon. With England fidgeting uncomfortably at his side, attempting to distance himself from one Nation and only succeeding to bump into another, America used his height to his advantage and searched over the heads of the crowd for an escape route. Locating a clearing by the wall, America began to push towards it, beckoning for England to follow him as he left the thick of the throng to settle at its fringes.

Surveying the crowd they'd escaped, America asked casually, "Has anyone said a speech?"

England shook his head, looking distracted. His pupils weren't focused on America, instead gazing off at something behind his shoulder. "No, they haven't. Had there been one, I wouldn't have missed it."

"Okay, cool." As gently as he could, America cupped England's chin in his hands and redirected him, popping him back to attention. "D'you think that microphone is on?"

"I don't see why it wouldn't be," England said irritably, swatting America's hand away. "Why do you even -"

Then, the realization struck.

"Oh, hell," England gasped, "Don't tell me you're going to - Damn it, I didn't mean to encourage you!"

It was too late. America was already halfway across the room and nearing the stage that sat in it's corner, every step serving to close the gap between them. England watched on in mortified awe as he climbed up it's stairs and planted himself dead at it's center, behind a podium, grinning brightly at the crowd.

Had he no _shame?_

No, he didn't.

"Hey, peeps!," America called, tapping the microphone. The sound of his fingernail against metal echoed through the room, making England wince. "Testing, testing, one-two-three."

And even worse, the crowd listened. America's voice naturally drowned out the sprinkles of small-talk among other Nations and the microphone didn't hurt, either. But even if he'd been whispering under the spotlight, the other Nations would have played along - It was America, and for reasons both good and bad, people paid attention when he opened his mouth.

"I have something to say."

Suddenly, America leapt from his place on the stage - really _leapt_, with too much energy for someone his age, feet hitting the floor with a resounding bang. By now, the world was agog, and even without the microphone they heard what he had to say next:

"Okay, first, everybody take hands!"

A universal groan. Using his palm as a shield to hide his face, England muttered half-heartedly, "Oh, he can't be _serious._" But he couldn't help the, albeit embarrassed, smile that snuck it's way onto his face.

The sight of America bounding his way, however, wiped it away, replaced with a look of sheer horror.

In front of everyone, America grabbed England's hand. Ignoring his protests, America upped the strength level and, dragging England behind him, waltzed up to a startled Canada and linked arms with him as well. Brother on one side and boyfriend on the other, his actions were met with groans of protest and piteous stares from the surrounding Nations, none of whom were participating.

"Are you fucking kidding me?," someone grumbled. "We don't need an all-American pep talk", called another, jibe met with shouts of approval.

"Just try it, okay?" America reassured them, smile (and grip) not wavering. "Canada, bro, get someone too, would ya?"

Pulling free was no use - when America got like this, there was no reasoning with him. Blindly, Canada rummaged for the first person he could find, his fingers closing around a rough black glove. Preparing to apologize on his brother's behalf, he looked up to see who the hand it belonged to and found - oh, God - _Russia_, smiling at him.

"S-sorry," Canada stuttered, moving to pull free. But no longer was his hand wrapped around Russia's - their positions had switched without his notice and now Russia's huge palm now holding _Canada_ in place, daring him to let go.

"Thank you for inviting me," he said, squeezing Canada's hand. The captive Nation was unsure how to respond, swallowing dryly, before he heard Russia literally _squawk _in surprise and out of the blue, there was Belarus, clutching her brother's free hand to her chest. After her was a woozy Lithuania, trailed by Poland, who joined the train with a cry of, "Liet, are you _suicidal _or something?"

By way of a quick count of, America found, to his immense pleasure, the chain now spanned seven Nations. Only one hundred and ninety to go. While the row wasn't exactly _peaceful_ yet, it was a start. The spark had spread from North America to Eastern Europe relatively quickly and showed no signs of slowing, blossoming into a wildfire. A peaceful, metaphorical wildfire.

"Ah, how could it hurt?" With a goofy grin, Spain linked hands with Poland, pulling a swearing Romano behind him. Behind them came Veneziano and Germany, who was dragged in very much the same way as Italy's Southern half had been.

Back near the front of the line, England was anything but happy, now flanked by both France and the obnoxiously cheerful America.

"Hey," he hissed, tugging down America to lean into his ear, whisper hiding underneath the crowd's general murmur as those who weren't still rolling their eyes got into place. "First off, fuck you, and secondly, have you seen Prussia?"

America's eyebrows shot up as he scanned the crowd, sharing a fleeting moment of seriousness with the other. Giving up, and unable to locate the man in question, he shrugged it off uneasily, muttering over his shoulder, "The guy is a cam-whore - he'll show up eventually."

"Fine," England sighed, seeming to accept his response. "Really, I'd prefer it if he didn't. We're trying to give Nations a _good _reputation here."

Around their hushed conversation, a circle was beginning to take shape. Peer pressure must've been a deciding factor; one Nordic gave in, the rest quietly followed. The first of a trio, inviting in the second, and then third. An older brother leading his younger sister, and sometimes, vice versa. Though they complained, moaned, and snickered, muttering insults and obscenities, the puzzle pieces still fit. Reach by reach, hand by hand, Nation by Nation.

And by some miracle, only a minute later, all one hundred and ninety seven were standing in a single circle. It stretched to the edges of the room's four walls and swayed with the Nations who formed it. America himself stood proudly at it's head - one spike, jutting out, ruining what would otherwise be a perfect curve.

He could tell that there wasn't any order to the group. Just the way he had wanted: African Nations next to Europeans, South American with Asian, the islanders and main lands linked.

With flickering stage lights for sunlight and a rickety air conditioner for wind, it was like the first day of a summer camp. Like they were children, not just in looks, but in years and experience.

Just kids. Now _that_ was a thought America enjoyed. Imagine, if the people around him were strangers meeting for the first time. Without a reason to be enemies, imagine the good terms they could have been on, each and every one of them. And if the soaring feeling in America's chest was anything to go by, this circle was going to help them revert back to that state, like a reset button.

"Ooh, _now_ what? I'm simply bursting with excitement!"

England's sarcastic comment snapped America from his daydreams as effectively as his head being dunked into icy water. With a swing of his shoulders, America admitted what he had been hoping to avoid.

"I didn't plan what to say if we actually gotin the circle."

Nations laughed at this. Some condescending, most mean, and others happier. America tried to filter the bad ones out and focus on the positives, like sifting through rubble for gold; Spain was one of the good laughers, and Finland, and if you counted those solely without malice but minus the joy, Germany.

"Hey, uh, we're geographically accurate!"

"What about-," a random voice began suggestively. America stopped them before they could cause any harm.

"_Woah_, no, I'm not taking _any_ perverted shit right now. We all know the jokes, 'kay? At least we got the shape right. Look at us, we made a circle!"

A disappointed sigh, followed by the grousing of '_puritan_.'

Resisting the urge to stick out his tongue, America continued to openly confess, "If anyone was expecting a five-star speech, you can rule that out now."

"Already did." "Shut up, Cuba."

More laughter. Less gold.

Looking from bored face to deep scowl, a similar expression began to twist America's face.

"Yeah, so," he ventured, smile gone, "I was thinking -"

Another interruption - it sounded like Cuba again. "There are going to be refreshments, right? If we go on like this, I'll be able to feel my ribs."

That one comment was all it took to spark a chain reaction; all at once, the Nations began to talk, voices piling on top of one another.

"Ribs? Oh, man, BBQ sounds so good right now." "Can't you see he's talking?" "Yeah, but we're gonna be out there for hours and I can't concentrate on an empty stomach." "All of you, sssh!" "Shushing us just makes it louder, people." "Do you know what time it is?" "How much longer?" "Hurry up already!"

It was slowly beginning to dawn on America that, perhaps, he was the only one who saw the circle as such a holy thing.

"I still don't see any food." "Did Australia bring something?" "I brought snacks but the stage manager took them away from me." "What, were they poison?" "Oh woah, like, five minutes left!"

America dropped the hands of England and Canada.

"'That's it. All over."

Beside him, Canada hastily yanked free - even more discouragingly, England didn't stay either, retreating as soon as he was given the chance.

"I thought he was going to ask for money", said Switzerland, and nearby, Romano jeered, "Waste of time."

As the Nations around him morphed back into the previous blob of a crowd, America was left with disbelief gnawing at his heart. The regular groups reformed, too. Africa over there, Asia isolated in the corner - Prussia snickering with his crude hand gestures and Hong Kong looking mildly annoyed.

The usual.

How could they act like nothing important was occurring? Fine, screw the circle. They could've made an oval, or a triangle, or even a human pyramid for all America cared. The whole point of holding hands was to acknowledge the moment for what it was:

The end of their time.

This was special. This was a whole era coming to a close. This was a new life for every Nation, a second chance for the old coots who forced themselves to act like they didn't worry about 'luxurious' modern day troubles after the chaos they'd lived through. Heck, by now, with two hundred years under his belt, perhaps America could be seen as one of those old fogeys living in the past, who thought breaking face and shedding tears would make them weak.

But Nations weren't weak. They were _never_ weak.

They had to be strong. They were built to last, to fight, to heal quickly so they could die all over again. Any normal person would've gone insane after thousands of years of having the weight of the world on your shoulders, quite literally.

But even when you were more earth than flesh, there was nothing weak about letting your guard down once in front of someone who you might've fought a war with a thousand years ago because, by God_, it doesn't matter anymore._

Maybe America had an even smaller understanding of his fellow Nations than he had originally thought. But just this once, he thought they might be able to take him seriously - take _themselves _seriously - and gather without bribery or grumbling. That they could simply share in each other's company and allow themselves to be afraid and anxious and cry and be friendsand even scarier, _human._

How can't they see what America sees?

In front of him, Turkey sneered at Greece, Austria slighted Switzerland, Hong Kong rolled his eyes at China, Romano cussed out Germany, Hungary slapped Prussia, even England, one of the few people America had ever looked up to, elbowed France.

It was déjà vu. The same mistakes, the same insults, the same _worthless _arguments over and over again because those self-absorbed powerful, powerless old hunks of land wouldn't let it die.

How couldn't they _see? _

And then, it was One Minute 'Till Showtime, and Nations were forced into a neat and tidy line that spun in a long spiral (America was knocked to the back of the line with Germany at his back and Iceland his front). That's when the mind numbing panic took over -

And the minute was up.

Pushing through the doorway's curtain, blinded by the hot spotlights, everything America had tried to tell the others finally clicked one minute too late.

_We've always been history. But we're about to make our own._

0-0-0

7 Nautical Miles Off the Coast of the United Kingdom

In one of Sealand's two towers there was a tiny room with a television. Silver pots catching water drops lined the floor and it's concrete walls shone by the flickering light of the TV.

Glassy eyes glued to the screen, Sealand sat cross-legged on the couch with a ratty blanket around his shoulders. Beside him was Prince Michael, watching attentively as the young Nation nibbled half-heartedly at contents of a striped popcorn box.

"Ready, kiddo?"

Sealand swallowed a handful of popcorn, smiling bravely.

"Of course!"

He looked terrified.

0-0-0

3

2

1

On Air

0-0-0

Back Where We Began - The Wood-Paneled Room

"_Bundesrepublik Deutschland._ The Federal Republic of Germany."

"I-Italy . . . _in particolare, _the Northern part . . ."

"The People's Republic of China." "India." "C-Canada." "_Republica Federativa do Brasil._" "Australia." "My turn. England."

"Yeah, hum, so, I'm . . . The United States. Of America."

"I'm Hungary." "Republic of Austria." "Belarus." "Switzerland."

The list of names rolled on and on like a wish list. Sometimes, words would overlap, the last syllable of 'Sweden' harmonizing with the first of 'Finland' and other times, there would be huge canyons to cross, like the 'Russian Federation' and, after a silent stretch, '. . .Ukraine.'

"Cuba." "Egypt." "Japan." "_South _Korea." "Kingdom of Spain." "Italy . . . the other one." "Israel." "Lithuania." "Umm, Poland."

Even with the microphone's assistance, ears were strained in an effort to hear the final name: Liechtenstein.

"That would be everyone," said Germany, working as a period to neatly finish the sentence. The announcer nodded, indentation, and began writing the next paragraph as he turned to face the audience once more. "There we have it. Let's give it up for them, shall we?"

Suddenly, there was applause. The unexpected boom was something no Nation had time to brace themselves for, each one of them startled and, in some special cases, frightened. Clapping was an unfamiliar sound, after all, and they had no idea how to react - smile? Wave? Bow?

Nations weren't supposed to be in the spotlight; at least, that's what the older ones thought. They functioned behind the scenes, impacting the world in tremendous ways but remaining anonymous, nameless, with their own face never on the line. The idea of being _recognized_, whether on the streets or through a crowd's roar was unheard of.

America loosened his tie, breathing heavily.

"Formal introductions aside," said the announcer, "if you would like to ask a question, please raise your hand. While it's not required, we ask that you specify which Nation it's directed too."

Simultaneously, every arm in the room shot up. The Nations were overlooking a living city of human skyscrapers, the building's finger antennae brushing storm clouds that fired camera-flash lightning.

"You, man with the CBS uniform and checkered hat."

It was beyond difficult to trace that description - America found himself frantically examining each of the room's many reporters, unable to identify which one the asker was.

"I couldn't hear you. Can you repeat that, sir?"

America still couldn't find any head with a checkered hat, but the announcer obviously had better luck.

"Question one," he boomed, relaying the information, "'Is the status of Nation passed down from human to human? Can you become a Nation if you spend too much time with one?' Who wants to answer that one?"

It took America (and every other Nation) a moment to realize they were being addressed. Face an impressive shade of green, Japan was the first to speak up; America crossed his fingers under the table, wishing his friend the best of luck (and willing that he wouldn't puke all over the microphone.)

"No," Japan said, voice robotic. "First, from when the country is born to when it dies, the Nation is the same. Two, you are born a nation. Thank you." He bowed his head stiffly and retreated, looking relieved.

The announcer, however, wouldn't let it die.

"So how old would that make you?"

_Aren't you never supposed to ask old people that?_, America thought, but even if Japan was scandalized, he didn't show it, slowly returning to the microphone with his eyes closed.

"I'm sorry, I am- I'm not certain. Over," he took a deep breath, probably preparing himself for the impending shock, "three thousand."

With an audible gasp, the audience's hands dropped and cameras made a comeback, dousing the Nation's sweaty faces in light. The announcer, too, had stopped to stare, his larger-than-life persona nowhere to be seen.

"_Wow._ How - ah, sorry, next question. Would you like to pick, _Japan_?"

Like a pickle being bleached, the island Nation paled in the blink of an eye. At least he wasn't green anymore. "No thank you."

"Alright, then." The announcer scoped the assemblage of wildly-waving men and woman, finally pointing at a woman near it's center. "Next question goes to the lady in the pink."

"Greece, WikiLeaks uploaded a video of your arm cutting itself open while a Greek hospital exploded. Is this commonplace?"

For once wide awake, the Nation took a moment to contemplate this, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Yes and no. We feel . . . _important_ events that effect our whole country."

More photos. By now, they could have filled an album or two.

"You," chose the announcer, moving onto question three, "the one wearing a trench coat."

"This one is directed towards Canada."

The Nation in question froze, disbelieving, eyes widened slightly. "_Me_?"

"Well, are you Canada?," the announcer prodded, and the North American Nation was nodding before he could even finish his sentence.

"Yes, yes, that's me. I'm your guy." Despite the circumstances, Canada felt a trill of excitement flare up in his stomach. "Ask whenever you're ready, please." Then, he sat still, waiting with his hands in his lap until there came the question:

"As a country that speaks two languages, did they both come naturally?"

Canada paused to consider, glancing nervously at the surrounding Nations (who, for the first time in his life, were all staring intently at him), before nodding confidently.

"Yeah. No one ever sat down and taught me English or French, and for a long time I didn't interact with anyone human or Nation, so I must've just been born knowing them. I do have some memories of England correcting my grammar, but that's normal for a little kid. So, to answer, yes, they both came equally naturally and I also think we're born knowing our languages. That's all, thank you."

Clapping. A singular person, two little hands, began to applaud somewhere near the back of the studio, and to America's disbelief Canada actually _bowed. _It was an ever-so-slight motion, barely noticeable, but alongside it was a cocky little grin that the United States didn't approve of at all. In fact, it seemed to him that his brother's head was getting a bit swollen; was one question really all it took? And why was America feeling _jealous? _

Back to the announcer. New reporter, new chance. "Last row, the seat to the far right. No, not - I mean my right, your left."

"How is a Nation 'born'? Sexual or asexual reproduction?"

An appalled pause. Knowing smiles (and some smirks) were exchanged between Nations.

"I'm only answering this so a certain someone _won't_," China muttered, refusing to look in France's direction. Clearing his throat, he continued, "We don't know. Children are simply found.

"For instance . . ." China pointed a long finger at Japan, who ducked his head, exposed like a turtle without it's shell. "He was found hiding in bamboo. Sometimes, humans will meet us when we're children and try to raise us, but it never goes well. One, they don't teach us what we need to grow, and two, we become restless. We seek out our own kind and they tell us what we are."

The room was silent as China concluded his explanation. "Thank you."

"Well, then," the announcer said with reverence, "That was quite the story!" He stopped to wipe his glasses, pulling a silk handkerchief from his suit pocket.

"Next question. Man with the blue glasses, front row."

"Why do we have Presidents, Prime Ministers, and all other leaders if you exist? Why don't you rule over the countries instead?"

That was a complicated one, not something anyone wanted to answer. Yet again, the Nations held a silent debate amongst themselves, arguing with their eyes over who would be the unlucky answerer. In a surprising turn of events, it was Ukraine who took the plunge, crossing her arms over her chest with a small blush.

"T-that's an idea, but - well, first, we'd need to say we exist, and there was never a good time to do that. Then, next, a country can't be led by the same person for too long. Not us Nations, I mean, the land country. We _have _opinions, and even if we represent the people we can't agree with every one of them, and - alright, so, regardless of whatever you are, if you're in power forever, there's going to be a revolt. Holding control for too long would be, ah -"

"A dictator," Belarus interrupted, smartly finishing her sister's speech. "That would be a dictator."

Ukraine nodded thankfully. "Exactly. It would be a dictatorship, and we don't want that."

With each passing minute, the stage grew more and more comfortable. Instead of striking terror, the impending questions roused only a numb fear.

"Woman with the green scarf, balcony."

"My question is for Italy."

Both Veneziano and Romano reacted instinctively, looking to see who had called their name, but the latter was the first to speak. "Which one?"

"Which one?," echoed the announcer, looking perplexed. "You aren't Italy?"

_We have nametags for a reason_, America thought, biting his tongue as he waited to see how the notoriously hot-tempered Italian would react. There was a lot on the line here and he couldn't afford to throw one of his usual fits. Spain, who's face could be read like a book, looked ready to burst with worry, chewing on his lower lip like a jelly worm as Romano's cheeks went red. But to Romano's credit, it became clear he was making a valiant effort to keep his cool and, politely as possible, correct the announcer.

"Okay, listen here," he explained, adjusting the microphone so it lined up with his lips. "I'm only saying this once. There are two of us representing the country Italy, Veneziano and Romano, North and South. I'm the older brother, South. Which one of us are you asking?"

The woman took a long pause to think it over but still sounded unsure when she answered. "Umm, North."

Romano sunk back into his chair scowling, obviously unconcerned with how the humans judged him or what the cameras saw. _That might change, though, _America reasoned, _if he sees the footage._

Meanwhile, Veneziano was frozen like a deer in the headlights. His eyes darted from the audience, the Nations, the other Nations, and back to the audience, momentarily wide open.

"The question is this: Would you consider yourself the representation of your people or national government, and which do you identify most with?"

Veneziano's eyelids fluttered, and when they met, remained glued shut. "Umm . . . I think I'm - "

"We alternate," Germany intervened, barging in without warning. After a moment of indecision, video cameras changed their focus and zoomed in on him instead of Veneziano. "We alternate. We've found it's more likely that we'll agree with our people than our governments, but it's still unclear."

While his eyes were still closed, Italy followed Germany's voice and turned his head in his direction, startlingly accurate for someone unable to see. His expression, or lack of one, couldn't be read - definitely unnerving. All around him, the crowd murmured discontentedly, confused, perhaps, at Germany's sudden outburst.

Staring determinedly at the audience, Germany said stiffly, "Thank you," and lowered his microphone. The reporters seemed to accept this, and after a round of photos and more attention than Germany ever would have wanted, he was left alone. They abandoned him for the next question that was picked, cast by an elegant woman with a draped silk dress.

"If you're immortal, why do you look the way you do? Do you look the same age forever?"

America's turn. "We age along with the country. During my first few years as a colony, I was just a toddler, and then afterward I started to grow. Like, for example, I was a teenager during the Revolution and I've looked how I do now since at least the 50s. Appearance wise, we don't usually look older than fifty. It just works that way."

"Man, yes, you, third row down at the end."

"Why did you stay in hiding?"

"It wasn't _our _idea. We listen to our bosses, that's what we call our country's leaders, and they tell us not to. If we'd been allowed to, I think a lot of us would've revealed ourselves sooner."

"Woman, yellow dress, balcony."

Repeat.

0-0-0

Hungary left the stage with a wild fire in her eyes.

"That," she gasped, kicking off her high heels as she ran to Austria's side, "was the most amazing thing _ever_."

0-0-0

After the Interviews - Behind the Scenes

"God _bless_ technology! Remember when you couldn't record TV shows?"

"Oh, do I! Remember when television didn't even exist?"

"_Barely_. Electricity?"

"Aiyah, you two - Remember when children weren't spoiled rotten?"

"Oh, knock it off, China."

The TV station's venue was huge, five whole floors of cavernous halls and high ceilings. It could easily hold a crowd of two hundred and give elbowroom to spare, so when the interview was complete, Nations unwilling to fly home (all of them) gathered in a green and gold ballroom to socialize.

But what the station had in size, it lacked in style, and it looked more like a warehouse than a castle. Probably having undergone a makeover in honor of the Nations, it smelled of fresh paint and floor polish, the headache inducing stench only worsened by fake-flower air freshener.

Really, through the eyes of the more industrialized Nations, the only beautiful thing about it was the view a concrete balcony overlooked; there, spread before them, was the city, with it's dark skyscrapers silhouetted in blinking lights and the highway running below like a rainbow creek. Electricity drowned out the stars and the sky was dyed more than one color, flaring with pink flames at it's base and bruising blue as it rose upwards, moon hidden behind dusty clouds.

The curtains stayed drawn, however, and few ventured into the night air, leaving the view unadmired. Instead, he Nations were gathered inside, hovering either by the buffet of finger sandwiches and wine or huddled in gossip groups, slowly making their rounds around the room. Without a conference, and with one, inevitable fighting, they almost enjoyed each other's company.

Almost.

After some negotiating, the building's owners agreed to lug a television from the bottom floor and into the Nation's ballroom. It was a hefty, high-tech flat-screen, and turning it on was an ordeal full of tangled wires, electric shocks, and curses. Then came the problem of finding the remote, but once it was safe in Switzerland's hands things went on without a hitch, and the Nations were watching their interviews, just as planned.

"It's so weird seeing myself on TV," gaped South Korea, leering at the television. In the past few minutes, he'd been yelled at four times for blocking the view and once to _'take your fucking fingers off the damn screen!' _Beside him, Spain sighed dreamily, cupping his chin in his hands.

"I was on TV once before," he reminisced, "World Cup, 2010. I painted my face and everything for disguise. My boss yelled at me real bad afterwards, but who cares? Football ismagic in person." He paused, smile growing. "I was so proud of myself, too! For all these years, I thought I got away with it, but when I saw my WikiLeaks files, they had a shot of me in the stands. They really saw me - two seconds, in a crowd of thousands! Who does that? Who just sits there and stares at a TV screen looking for someone's face? That's _crazy_."

When Spain laughed, so did the men beside him; his good nature was contagious, spreading like honey on bread. Encouraged by their glee, he continued, "I mean, I understand America's boss's photos, but a random guy in a football crowd? Hey, speaking of that, America, lucky - your bosses let you in photos?"

No response. Unfazed, Spain tried again. "America, you there?"

"America left," England said briskly, chiming into the conversation. He had been standing detachedly from the bustling group with a cold beverage in hand.

"You said goodbye?"

"No," England admitted, whisking his drink with a plastic spoon. Ice clinked against the cup's rim, jingling like bells. "I assume his boss pulled him out."

"That's cold, man, leaving your lover in the dust like that?"

"Not especially," England muttered. He always clammed up at the mention of the notorious 'L' word. Instantly, France appeared at his side, draping an arm across England's shoulder and smirking.

"I assure you, Spain, he's weepingon the inside. Aren't you, _Angleterre_?"

England shoved him off harshly, drink nearly spilling. "Shut it, dick. There's a limit to how much idiocy I can take a day and those damned interview questions just about reached it."

("Don't change the topic," France hummed under his breath, but he let England do so anyway, retreating without much of a fight.)

"Oh, how could I _forget?_," Spain agreed with England. "Some of them, okay, they aren't used to Nations, but the rest of them! Hey, Romano, which one was your favorite?"

Across the room, Romano glanced up from a velvet pool table, cracking the cue-stick down by his toe. "What the hell?"

"Which interview question was worst?"

"They were _all _fucking stupid." He stopped to consider, and in a voice rich with mocking, answered, "'If you get shot, will the country explode?' I wanted to rip off that bastard's face!"

South Korea shook his head eagerly. "No, the _worst _was 'how are wars started'? How did we answer that one, again? I know what _I _wanted to say."

"Which was?," China asked. Grinning deviously, South Korea jumped to his feet and struck a pose, pointing his finger accusatorily at the empty air.

"Humans, _bitch_!"

All Nations but China laughed at this - Prussia even clapped, hooting merrily while France called 'Amen'! Leaning into the beige couch, China sighed, looking wary.

"This is only the beginning - it's a sign," he said ominously. "They're going to try and blame all their mistakes on _us._"

No one dared respond to that. China's warning was either drowned by cheer or ignored to keep the mood light. Hungary fell into the latter, hastily changing the subject. Looking to the long-forgotten TV screen, she asked, "Which question are they on now?"

"'How do alliances work'? That means it's almost over", whined Seychelles. "I can't believe no one asked me a single question! I've been looking forward to this day."

"You've been_ what?"_

"Oh, I -" Hastily, she assured them, "I would never _try _to get us found out, but, y'know, it's kind of nice."

Stares, all directed her way. Why did those Europeans have to be so nosey?

"See, there- it's silly, really," she explained, feeling her face heat up. "There was this beautiful beach I always went to with a little cave, and . . . it was really nice. But then some family started fishing there, and so did their children after them, and they saw me. They knew how I didn't age, and . . ." She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, I never went back, and that's all there is to it. Story time over."

While some paid no attention to Seychelles, other Nations nodded, clucking sympathetically. With a pained smile, she told those who listened, "It really doesn't matter," even when it was so obvious that it did.

0-0-0

Midway between the buffet and television stood Austria, nibbling at an array of cheese and crackers piled high onto his paper plate.

"Could you change the channel now?," he complained, eying the remote Switzerland refused to relinquish control of.

"No."

"Why not? The reactions would be _so_ much more interesting."

"Reactions?," Switzerland asked, suspicious. Austria raised an eyebrow and his voice, angling himself to smugly address the crowd.

"Didn't _any _of you listen? Reporters filmed our citizen's first responses to us - they should be airing it on some channel now."

"Why didn't you tell us before, asshole?," Prussia cried, swallowing his tower of Ritz crackers to lunge for the remote. Switzerland yelped something about 'keeping the peace', looking ready to bite the albino's hand off as they wrestled for control. Poker faced, Austria wiped his mouth delicately and folded the used napkin into a small triangle.

"Oh, I thought you knew. I suppose that was too much to ask."

"We weren't told _anything_ about reactions, Scrooge," Prussia growled, forcing the remote from Switzerland's hands in a game of keep-away, "So y'better take off anything you don't want to get wet, 'cause I _will _be dunking your head in fruit punch." He tossed the remote to Spain, who caught it easily, while Switzerland muttered threats under his breath.

"What channel is it?"

Austria took his time answering, first dumping his empty plate and carefully folded napkin in the wastebasket. Crumbs rained down to the bottom of the barrel, breaking in the new trash bag. "Fox news."

Spain hastily punched in the numbers, holding the remote up to the TV like a compass. The screen flickered and the image changed, shedding its old skin for a new station.

Onscreen was a handsome reporter and a young woman with a patchwork coat. They were standing in a crowded city street with pedestrians hurrying by in the background. By the looks of it, they were in New York, and behind the interviewee was Times Square in all it's glory, flaunting it's flashy lights and dancing to an urban beat.

"What country are you from?," the reporter asked, holding up his microphone.

She smiled sheepishly, waving at the camera with a brown fingerless glove. "America, obviously, but my parents came from China."

Lounged on the sofa, China tilted his head, examining her more closely.

"And what did you think of those countries?"

The girl paused. "I didn't really see a lot of their _personalities_, but I think they're both pretty cool."

"You seem like a fashionable young lady. How were you expecting them to look?"

"Umm, I thought they'd look older."

China nodded in approval. "I like her."

Brushing back her long hair, the interviewee carried on, "I mean, hearing the news, I expected they'd be battle scarred old men, but she - China - was really pretty!"

China's smile faltered, eyes widening in disbelief. His fears were confirmed by Taiwan's giggling. _She . . .?_

The reporter lowered the mic, shifting his posture to suggest he was letting her in on a secret. "What would you do if I told you that China was actually male?"

The girl blinked. "I wouldn't believe you?"

"Well, he is."

Mirroring an incredibly embarrassed Nation, the girl buried her face in her hands. "Oh my God, seriously? I'm so sorry! I didn't even think they'd _have _genders, so I wasn't sure, and - really, you can't blame me! He's so - oh, God, really? He's a - I can't believe that."

As chuckles and snickers were sent his way, China got to his feet, trying his best to stay composed. "I'm leaving."

"Oh, don't take it too badly," Taiwan chided, forcing back her grin. "I know plenty of girls who would killto look like you."

"_Stop that, _young lady!"

"But that's you!," yowled South Korea, beside himself in hysterics. "_You're_ the lady_! _See, I told you that you had boobs!_"_

"I'm leaving," China sputtered, leaping to his feet. Off he stormed to the other side of the room, leaving more space on the couch for South Korea to sprawl. He stretched luxuriously, yawning, "I was just being honest," before Australia approached him, patting him heartily on the back.

"Nice going there, buddy." After a quick fist bump, Australia's gleeful expression darkened. "But listen," he advised, "You and China mighta grown up together, but you shouldn't mess with him. He's a superpower. Heard a rumor he's reached America-level strength."

South Korea jolted, face scrunched in disbelief. "_What? _He's too old for that!"

"Hey, just passing it on. You can't be too sure."

The Nation shook his head wildly, leaning into Australia's gaze. "But _America? _I know, China's doing good, but -"

"_Ssshhh! _It's the next person!_"_

The conversing Nations turned their attentionback to the reporter - this time, he was interviewing two teenage boys about nineteen or seventeen, both in brand name hoodies and shredded jeans.

"Yeah, we actually found the whole idea of the Nations hilarious. Then the mobs and crime bull started, but comedy comes from tragedy, right? It'll blow over in a few months."

"So," continued the second, "we came up with our own ideas of what the countries would be like. So watching the interviews, we were like, 'what the hell is this?' We thought America would be a fat guy."

"Smart kids," called Cuba, raising his glass.

"Yeah, in our minds, Canada was this pot-addict, Japan was a freaky guy in a sailor suit, Germany was a Nazi and all the other stereotypes."

"_Racist _kids," corrected Hungary, huffing indignantly. "What is America teaching his young about us?"

Unwrapping a roll of paper towels, Canada shrugged, crouching down to clean up the cup of water Japan (apologizing profusely) had dropped. Germany was no where to be seen.

"Will he be alright?," France murmured, creeping to Prussia's side.

"Uh." Prussia cringed, pursing his lips like a duck's beak. Taking a swig of his drink, he guessed, "Yeah, West'll be okay. Touchy stuff. Or he might just need to piss or something."

Tossing the empty cup in the trashcan's general vicinity, Prussia rolled back his shoulders and stretched, eying his bare wrist through narrowed red eyes.

"Hey, look at the time on my invisible watch! Gotta fly - later, bitches."

Austria smirked, tilting his nose ever-so-slightly into the air. "Already? At only ten o'clock?"

"Yeah, well," Prussia snapped, "it's a night flight. I'm getting some shut eye on the plane."

"He's right," Ukraine said. "Our bosses should all be coming here soon."

"What do you think they'll do with us?," Hungary asked, suddenly concerned. "I usually stay in Budapest, but do you think they'll let me? Grocery shopping is going to be complicated with reporters everywhere - not that I'm complaining, cooking is a hassle, anyway."

"Well I don't expect we'll be able to roam free," England said, rejoining the conversation. Over the course of the night, he'd refilled his glass more times than was probably healthy. "Everyone know our faces now."

"Hmph." Spain frowned lightly, displeasure marring his kind features. "I never thought of that."

0-0-0

Before the plane ride home came a brief period to which the Nations could say their goodbyes. No one was nearly as emotional about it as they had been when they first greeted one another - most fell back into their old routines, verbally sparring past foes and having a good laugh at each other's expense.

Maybe they sought the comfort derived from repetition. Or maybe they really were prepared to forget the progress they'd made in time for their next meeting, where they'd start all over again with the same taunts and tricks.

Habits die hard, as it's been said. And contrary to the popular belief, some old dogs you simply can't teach a new trick.

0-0-0

Another Missed Phone Call - America's IPhone

"Oh, voicemail. It's me, Arthur- no, England, actually. I'll never get used to saying that on a phone. Anyhow, I'm calling to say- oh, I'm no good at this. I feel so _bloody_ ridiculous. It's really- it's too bad you left after the interview. You missed some - well, I wouldn't call them _fun_, but . . . enjoyable times. Russia was asking about you, actually. No clue why, but I told him to piss off, so that's taken care of. So, call back, if you must. Bye."

0-0-0


	8. The End, I guess? Author

Technically, posting an author's note as a chapter isn't allowed, so here's a line from a random drabble:

_"I-I don't think that's a fair question", America manages to choke out. The bees are beginning to hum again - they crawl in and around the audience, the human heads that nod and bob transforming into waves that become a sea. _

And there you have it. Back to the good stuff.

I know this fanfic wasn't extremely popular or anything, but because it's being discontinued, I owe an explanation to those who have read and/or reviewed. I fell out of the Hetalia fandom, into the Adventure Time one, and got wrapped up in some personal projects that soon took priority over this one.

Though it won't be written, the story _Boss's Best Friend _does still have a plot outline. I might as well share it here.

To summarize, tensions rise between those who support the Nations and those who don't. People mistakenly believe that the Nations control/do control history, and the government puts all of their effort into ending these rumors.

Plot point one:

America is at a solo press conference and doesn't know what the heck he's saying; the media twists his words to make him sound like a homophobic jerk-face; to try and remedy this, America makes a YouTube channel to come out; general commotion.

Plot point two:

Online, an Anti-Nation sends America a fake invitation to a gay pride parade (yup); Harris dissaproves, which automatically makes America that much more determined to attend; America attends; America is shot, and simultaneously, a bomb set by said Anti-Nation group detonates (it was rigged to make it seem that the country's controlled history, rousing fear in the population and 'confirming' rumors).

Plot point three:

The Nations are locked down in a prison, security cameras and everything; the footage from the prison is broadcast live, 24, worldwide; originally, people tune into the footage to reassure themselves the nations are under control; but slowly and surely, it becomes a reality TV show. Obvious satire right there.

Plot point four:

Nothing. That's as far as I got. You're guess is as good as mine when it comes to how it ends. Feel free to write that. I'd be curious (and up for the ego stroke).

Well, it's over now. Thank you for reading! I've learned a lot from this experience. Maybe next time I'll actually _finish _the fanfiction.

Oh, and John is atheist. Just thought I'd mention that.

- SnowyDayStarlight


End file.
